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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:46:43 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:46:43 -0700 |
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diff --git a/15431-h/15431-h.htm b/15431-h/15431-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..48e614b --- /dev/null +++ b/15431-h/15431-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,32685 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title>Success, by Samuel Hopkins Adams</title> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)” <title> Success, by Samuel Hopkins Adams </title> <style type=" /> + +<style type="text/css"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Success, by Samuel Hopkins Adams + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Success + A Novel + +Author: Samuel Hopkins Adams + +Release Date: March 21, 2005 [EBook #15431] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUCCESS *** + + + + +Etext produced by Robert Shimmin, Mary Meehan, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + SUCCESS + </h1> + <h2> + By Samuel Hopkins Adams + </h2> + <h4> + Author of “The Clarion,” “Common Cause,” etc. + </h4> + <h3> + 1921 + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>SUCCESS</b> </a> +<br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART1"> <b>PART I—ENCHANTMENT</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> +<br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>PART II—THE VISION</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XVI </a> +<br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART3"> <b>PART III—FULFILLMENT</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER XXI </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + + + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + SUCCESS + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART I—ENCHANTMENT + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + The lonely station of Manzanita stood out, sharp and unsightly, in the + keen February sunlight. A mile away in a dip of the desert, lay the town, + a sorry sprawl of frame buildings, patternless save for the one main + street, which promptly lost itself at either end in a maze of cholla, + prickly pear, and the lovely, golden-glowing roseo. Far as the eye could + see, the waste was spangled with vivid hues, for the rare rains had come, + and all the cacti were in joyous bloom, from the scarlet stain of the + ocatilla to the pale, dream-flower of the yucca. Overhead the sky shone + with a hard serenity, a blue, enameled dome through which the imperishable + fires seemed magnified as they limned sharp shadows on the earth; but in + the southwest clouds massed and lurked darkly for a sign that the storm + had but called a truce. + </p> + <p> + East to west, along a ridge bounding the lower desert, ran the railroad, a + line as harshly uncompromising as the cold mathematics of the engineers + who had mapped it. To the north spread unfathomably a forest of scrub pine + and piñon, rising, here and there, into loftier growth. It was as if man, + with his imperious interventions, had set those thin steel parallels as an + irrefragable boundary to the mutual encroachments of forest and desert, + tree and cactus. A single, straggling trail squirmed its way into the + woodland. One might have surmised that it was winding hopefully if blindly + toward the noble mountain peak shimmering in white splendor, mystic and + wonderful, sixty miles away, but seeming in that lucent air to be brooding + closely over all the varied loveliness below. + </p> + <p> + Though nine o’clock had struck on the brisk little station-clock, + there was still a tang of night chill left. The station-agent came out, + carrying a chair which he set down in the sunniest corner of the platform. + He looked to be hardly more than a boy, but firm-knit and self-confident. + His features were regular, his fairish hair slightly wavy, and in his + expression there was a curious and incongruous suggestion of settledness, + of acceptance, of satisfaction with life as he met it, which an observer + of men would have found difficult to reconcile with his youth and the + obvious intelligence of the face. His eyes were masked by deeply browned + glasses, for he was bent upon literary pursuits, witness the corpulent, + paper-covered volume under his arm. Adjusting his chair to the angle of + ease, he tipped back against the wall and made tentative entry into his + book. + </p> + <p> + What a monumental work was that in the treasure-filled recesses of which + the young explorer was straightway lost to the outer world! No human need + but might find its contentment therein. Spread forth in its alluringly + illustrated pages was the whole universe reduced to the purchasable. It + was a perfect and detailed microcosm of the world of trade, the cosmogony + of commerce <i>in petto</i>. The style was brief, pithy, pregnant; the + illustrations—oh, wonder of wonders!—unfailingly apt to the + text. He who sat by the Damascus Road of old marveling as the caravans + rolled dustily past bearing “emeralds and wheat, honey and oil and + balm, fine linen and embroidered goods, iron, cassia and calamus, white + wool, ivory and ebony,” beheld or conjectured no such wondrous + offerings as were here gathered, collected, and presented for the + patronage of this heir of all the ages, between the gay-hued covers of the + great Sears-Roebuck Semiannual Mail-Order Catalogue. Its happy possessor + need but cross the talisman with the ready magic of a postal money order + and the swift genii of transportation would attend, servile to his call, + to deliver the commanded treasures at his very door. + </p> + <p> + But the young reader was not purposefully shopping in this vast + market-place of print. Rather he was adventuring idly, indulging the + amateur spirit, playing a game of hit-or-miss, seeking oracles in those + teeming pages. Therefore he did not turn to the pink insert, embodying the + alphabetical catalogue (Abdominal Bands to Zither Strings), but opened at + random. + </p> + <p> + “Supertoned Banjos,” he read, beginning at the heading; and, + running his eye down the different varieties, paused at “Pride of + the Plantation, a full-sized, well-made, snappy-toned instrument at a very + moderate price. 12 T 4031/4.” + </p> + <p> + The explorer shook his head. Abovestairs rested a guitar (the Pearletta, + 12 S 206, price $7.95) which he had purchased at the instance of Messrs. + Sears-Roebuck’s insinuating representation as set forth in catalogue + item 12 S 01942, “Self-mastery of the Guitar in One Book, with All + Chords, Also Popular Solos That Can Be Played Almost at Sight.” The + nineteen-cent instruction-book had gone into the fire after three days of + unequal combat between it and its owner, and the latter had subsequently + learned something of the guitar (and more of life) from a Mexican-American + girl with lazy eyes and the soul of a capricious and self-indulged kitten, + who had come uninvited to Manzanita to visit an aunt, deceased six months + previously. With a mild pang of memory for those dreamy, music-filled + nights on the desert, the youth decided against further experiments in + stringed orchestration. + </p> + <p> + Telescopes turned up next. He lingered a moment over 20 T 3513, a + nickel-plated cap pocket-glass, reflecting that with it he could discern + any signal on the distant wooded butte occupied by Miss Camilla Van + Arsdale, back on the forest trail, in the event that she might wish a wire + sent or any other service performed. Miss Camilla had been very kind and + understanding at the time of the parting with Carlotta, albeit with a + grimly humorous disapproval of the whole inflammatory affair; as well as + at other times; and there was nothing that he would not do for her. He + made a neat entry in a pocket ledger (3 T 9901) against the time when he + should have spare cash, and essayed another plunge. + </p> + <p> + Arctics and Lumberman’s Overs he passed by with a grin as + inappropriate to the climate. Cod Liver Oil failed to interest him, as did + the Provident Cast Iron Range and the Clean-Press Cider Mill. But he + paused speculatively before Punching Bags, for he had the clean pride of + body, typical of lusty Western youth, and loved all forms of exercise. + Could he find space, he wondered, to install 6 T 1441 with its Scientific + Noiseless Platform & Wall Attachment (6 T 1476) in the portable house + (55 S 17) which, purchased a year before, now stood in the clearing behind + the station crammed with purchases from the Sears-Roebuck wonderbook. + Anyway, he would make another note of it. What would it be like, he + wondered, to have a million dollars to spend, and unlimited access to the + Sears-Roebuck treasures. Picturing himself as such a Croesus, he + innocently thought that his first act would be to take train for Chicago + and inspect the warehoused accumulations of those princes of trade with + his own eager eyes! + </p> + <p> + He mused humorously for a moment over a book on “Ease in + Conversation.” (“No trouble about conversation,” he + reflected; “the difficulty is to find anybody to converse with,” + and he thought first of Carlotta, and then of Miss Camilla Van Arsdale, + but chiefly of the latter, for conversation had not been the strong point + of the passionate, light-hearted Spanish girl.) Upon a volume kindly + offering to teach astronomy to the lay mind without effort or trouble (43 + T 790) and manifestly cheap at $1.10, he bestowed a more respectful + attention, for the desert nights were long and lonely. + </p> + <p> + Eventually he arrived at the department appropriate to his age and the + almost universal ambition of the civilized male, to wit, clothing. Deeply, + judiciously, did he meditate and weigh the advantages as between 745 J 460 + (“Something new—different—economical—efficient. An + all-wool suit embodying all the features that make for clothes + satisfaction. This announcement is of tremendous importance”—as + one might well have inferred from the student’s rapt expression) and + 776 J 017 (“A double-breasted, snappy, yet semi-conservative effect + in dark-green worsted, a special social value”), leaning to the + latter because of a purely literary response to that subtle and deft + appeal of the attributive “social.” The devotee of Messrs. + Sears-Roebuck was an innately social person, though as yet his gregarious + proclivities lay undeveloped and unsuspected by himself. Also he was of a + literary tendency; but of this he was already self-conscious. He passed on + to ulsters and raincoats, divagated into the colorful realm of neckwear, + debated scarf-pins and cuff-links, visualized patterned shirtings, and + emerged to dream of composite sartorial grandeurs which, duly synthesized + into a long list of hopeful entries, were duly filed away within the pages + of 3 T 9901, the pocket ledger. + </p> + <p> + Footsteps shuffling along the right of way dispelled his visions. He + looked up to see two pedestrians who halted at his movement. They were + paired typically of that strange fraternity, the hobo, one being a + grizzled, hard-bitten man of waning middle age, the other a vicious and + scrawny boy of eighteen or so. The boy spoke first. + </p> + <p> + “You the main guy here?” + </p> + <p> + The agent nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Got a sore throat?” demanded the boy surlily. He started + toward the door. The agent made no move, but his eyes were attentive. + </p> + <p> + “That’ll be near enough,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we ain’t on that lay,” put in the grizzled man. He + was quite hoarse. “You needn’t to be scared of us.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not,” agreed the agent. And, indeed, the fact was + self-evident. + </p> + <p> + “What about the pueblo yonder?” asked the man with a jerk of + his head toward the town. + </p> + <p> + “The hoosegow is old and the sheriff is new.” + </p> + <p> + “I got ya,” said the man, nodding. “We better be on our + way.” + </p> + <p> + “I would think so.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a hell of a guy, you are,” whined the boy. + “‘On yer way’ from you an’ not so much as ‘Are + you hungry?’ What about a little hand-out?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing doing.” + </p> + <p> + “Tightwad! How’d you like—” + </p> + <p> + “If you’re hungry, feel in your coat-pocket.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess you’re a wise one,” put in the man, grinning + appreciatively. “We got grub enough. Panhandlin’s a habit with + the kid; don’t come natural to him to pass a likely prospect without + makin’ a touch.” + </p> + <p> + He leaned against the platform, raising one foot slightly from the ground + in the manner of a limping animal. The agent disappeared into the station, + locking the door after him. The boy gave expression to a violent obscenity + directed upon the vanished man. When that individual emerged again, he + handed the grizzled man a box of ointment and tossed a packet of tobacco + to the evil-faced boy. Both were quick with their thanks. That which they + had most needed and desired had been, as it were, spontaneously provided. + But the elder of the wayfarers was puzzled, and looked from the salve-box + to its giver. + </p> + <p> + “How’d you know my feet was blistered?” + </p> + <p> + “Been padding in the rain, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you been on the hoof, too?” asked the hobo quickly. + </p> + <p> + The other smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Say!” exclaimed the boy. “I bet he’s Banneker. + Are you?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “That’s my name.” + </p> + <p> + “I heard of you three years ago when you was down on the Long Line + Sandy,” said the man. He paused and considered. “What’s + your lay, Mr. Banneker?” he asked, curiously but respectfully. + </p> + <p> + “As you see it. Railroading.” + </p> + <p> + “A gay-cat,” put in the boy with a touch of scorn. + </p> + <p> + “You hold your fresh lip,” his elder rebuked him. “This + gent has treated us <i>like</i> a gent. But why? What’s the idea? + That’s what I don’t get.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, some day I might want to run for Governor on the hobo ticket,” + returned the unsmiling agent. + </p> + <p> + “You get our votes. Well, so long and much obliged.” + </p> + <p> + The two resumed their journey. Banneker returned to his book. A freight, + “running extra,” interrupted him, but not for long. The wire + had been practicing a seemly restraint for uneventful weeks, so the agent + felt that he could settle down to a sure hour’s bookishness yet, + even though the west-bound Transcontinental Special should be on time, + which was improbable, as “bad track” had been reported from + eastward, owing to the rains. Rather to his surprise, he had hardly got + well reimmersed in the enchantments of the mercantile fairyland when the + “Open Office” wire warned him to be attentive, and presently + from the east came tidings of Number Three running almost true to + schedule, as befitted the pride of the line, the finest train that crossed + the continent. + </p> + <p> + Past the gaunt station she roared, only seven minutes late, giving the + imaginative young official a glimpse and flash of the uttermost luxury of + travel: rich woods, gleaming metal, elegance of finish, and on the rear of + the observation-car a group so lily-clad that Sears-Roebuck at its most + glorious was not like unto them. Would such a train, the implanted youth + wondered, ever bear him away to unknown, undreamed enchantments? + </p> + <p> + Would he even wish to go if he might? Life was full of many things to do + and learn at Manzanita. Mahomet need not go to the mountain when, with but + a mustard seed of faith in the proven potency of mail-order miracles he + could move mountains to come to him. Leaning to his telegraph instrument, + he wired to the agent at Stanwood, twenty-six miles down-line, his formal + announcement. + </p> + <p> + “O. S.—G. I. No. 3 by at 10.46.” + </p> + <p> + “O. K.—D. S.,” came the response. + </p> + <p> + Banneker returned to the sunlight. In seven minutes or perhaps less, as + the Transcontinental would be straining to make up lost time, the train + would enter Rock Cut three miles and more west, and he would recapture the + powerful throbbing of the locomotive as she emerged on the farther side, + having conquered the worst of the grade. + </p> + <p> + Banneker waited. He drew out his watch. Seven. Seven and a half. Eight. No + sound from westward. He frowned. Like most of the road’s employees, + he took a special and almost personal interest in having the regal train + on time, as if, in dispatching it through, he had given it a friendly push + on its swift and mighty mission. Was she steaming badly? There had been no + sign of it as she passed. Perhaps something had gone wrong with the + brakes. Or could the track have— + </p> + <p> + The agent tilted sharply forward, his lithe frame tense. A long drawn, + quivering shriek came down-wind to him. It was repeated. Then short and + sharp, piercing note on piercing note, sounded the shrill, clamant voice. + </p> + <p> + The great engine of Number Three was yelling for help. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + Banneker came out of his chair with a spring. + </p> + <p> + “Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!” screamed the strident voice. + </p> + <p> + It was like an animal in pain and panic. + </p> + <p> + For a brief instant the station-agent halted at the door to assure himself + that the call was stationary. It was. Also it was slightly muffled. That + meant that the train was still in the cut. As he ran to the key and sent + in the signal for Stanwood, Banneker reflected what this might mean. + Crippled? Likely enough. Ditched? He guessed not. A ditched locomotive is + usually voiceless if not driverless as well. Blocked by a slide? Rock Cut + had a bad repute for that kind of accident. But the quality of the call + predicated more of a catastrophe than a mere blockade. Besides, in that + case why could not the train back down— + </p> + <p> + The answering signal from the dispatcher at Stanwood interrupted his + conjectures. + </p> + <p> + “Number Three in trouble in the Cut,” ticked Banneker + fluently. “Think help probably needed from you. Shall I go out?” + </p> + <p> + “O. K.,” came the answer. “Take charge. Bad track + reported three miles east may delay arrival.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker dropped and locked the windows, set his signal for “track + blocked” and ran to the portable house. Inside he stood, + considering. With swift precision he took from one of the home-carpentered + shelves a compact emergency kit, 17 S 4230, “hefted” it, and + adjusted it, knapsack fashion, to his back; then from a small cabinet drew + a flask, which he disposed in his hip-pocket. Another part of the same + cabinet provided a first-aid outfit, 3 R 0114. Thus equipped he was just + closing the door after him when another thought struck him and he returned + to slip a coil of light, strong sash-cord, 36 J 9078, over his shoulders + to his waist where he deftly tautened it. He had seen railroad wrecks + before. For a moment he considered leaving his coat, for he had upwards of + three miles to go in the increasing heat; but, reflecting that the outward + and visible signs of authority might save time and questions, he thought + better of it. Patting his pocket to make sure that his necessary notebook + and pencil were there, he set out at a moderate, even, springless lope. He + had no mind to reach a scene which might require his best qualities of + mind and body, in a semi-exhausted state. Nevertheless, laden as he was, + he made the three miles in less than half an hour. Let no man who has not + tried to cover at speed the ribbed treacheries of a railroad track + minimize the achievement! + </p> + <p> + A sharp curve leads to the entrance of Rock Cut. Running easily, Banneker + had reached the beginning of the turn, when he became aware of a lumbering + figure approaching him at a high and wild sort of half-gallop. The man’s + face was a welter of blood. One hand was pressed to it. The other swung + crazily as he ran. He would have swept past Banneker unregarding had not + the agent caught him by the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you hurt?” + </p> + <p> + The runner stared wildly at the young man. “I’ll soom,” + he mumbled breathlessly, his hand still crumpled against the dreadfully + smeared face. “Dammum, I’ll soom.” + </p> + <p> + He removed his hand from his mouth, and the red drops splattered and were + lost upon the glittering, thirsty sand. Banneker wiped the man’s + face, and found no injury. But the fingers which he had crammed into his + mouth were bleeding profusely. + </p> + <p> + “They oughta be prosecuted,” moaned the sufferer. “I’ll + soom. For ten thousan’ dollars. M’hand is smashed. Looka that! + Smashed like a bug.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker caught the hand and expertly bound it, taking the man’s + name and address as he worked. + </p> + <p> + “Is it a bad wreck?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “It’s hell. Look at m’hand! But I’ll soom, all + right. <i>I</i>’ll show’m ... Oh! ... Cars are afire, too ... + Oh-h-h! Where’s a hospital?” + </p> + <p> + He cursed weakly as Banneker, without answering, re-stowed his packet and + ran on. + </p> + <p> + A thin wisp of smoke rising above the nearer wall of rocks made the agent + set his teeth. Throughout his course the voice of the engine had, as it + were, yapped at his hurrying heels, but now it was silent, and he could + hear a murmur of voices and an occasional shouted order. He came into + sight of the accident, to face a bewildering scene. + </p> + <p> + Two hundred yards up the track stood the major portion of the train, + intact. Behind it, by itself, lay a Pullman sleeper, on its side and + apparently little harmed. Nearest to Banneker, partly on the rails but + mainly beside them, was jumbled a ridiculous mess of woodwork, with here + and there a gleam of metal, centering on a large and jagged boulder. + Smaller rocks were scattered through the <i>mélange</i>. It was exactly + like a heap of giant jack-straws into which some mischievous spirit had + tossed a large pebble. At one end a flame sputtered and spread cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + A panting and grimy conductor staggered toward it with a pail of water + from the engine. Banneker accosted him. + </p> + <p> + “Any one in—” + </p> + <p> + “Get outa my way!” gasped the official. + </p> + <p> + “I’m agent at Manzanita.” + </p> + <p> + The conductor set down his pail. “O God!” he said. “Did + you bring any help?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m alone. Any one in there?” He pointed to the + flaming debris. + </p> + <p> + “One that we know of. He’s dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure?” cried Banneker sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Look for yourself. Go the other side.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker looked and returned, white and set of face. “How many + others?” + </p> + <p> + “Seven, so far.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” asked the agent with a sense of relief. It + seemed as if no occupant could have come forth of that ghastly and absurd + rubbish-heap, which had been two luxurious Pullmans, alive. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a dozen that’s hurt bad.” + </p> + <p> + “No use watering that mess,” said Banneker. “It won’t + burn much further. Wind’s against it. Anybody left in the other + smashed cars?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Got the names of the dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Now, how would I have the time!” demanded the conductor + resentfully. + </p> + <p> + Banneker turned to the far side of the track where the seven bodies lay. + They were not disposed decorously. The faces were uncovered. The postures + were crumpled and grotesque. A forgotten corner of a battle-field might + look like that, the young agent thought, bloody and disordered and casual. + </p> + <p> + Nearest him was the body of a woman badly crushed, and, crouching beside + it, a man who fondled one of its hands, weeping quietly. Close by lay the + corpse of a child showing no wound or mark, and next that, something so + mangled that it might have been either man or woman—or neither. The + other victims were humped or sprawled upon the sand in postures of + exaggerated <i>abandon</i>; all but one, a blonde young girl whose + upthrust arm seemed to be reaching for something just beyond her grasp. + </p> + <p> + A group of the uninjured from the forward cars surrounded and enclosed a + confused sound of moaning and crying. Banneker pushed briskly through the + ring. About twenty wounded lay upon the ground or were propped against the + rock-wall. Over them two women were expertly working, one tiny and + beautiful, with jewels gleaming on her reddened hands; the other brisk, + homely, with a suggestion of the professional in her precise motions. A + broad, fat, white-bearded man seemed to be informally in charge. At least + he was giving directions in a growling voice as he bent over the + sufferers. Banneker went to him. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + The other did not even look up. “Don’t bother me,” he + snapped. + </p> + <p> + The station-agent pushed his first-aid packet into the old man’s + hands. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” grunted the other. “Hold this fellow’s + head, will you? Hold it hard.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker’s wrists were props of steel as he gripped the tossing + head. The old man took a turn with a bandage and fastened it. + </p> + <p> + “He’ll die, anyway,” he said, and lifted his face. + </p> + <p> + Banneker cackled like a silly girl at full sight of him. The spreading + whisker on the far side of his stern face was gayly pied in blotches of + red and green. + </p> + <p> + “Going to have hysterics?” demanded the old man, striking not + so far short of the truth. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the agent, mastering himself. “Hey! you, + trainman,” he called to a hobbling, blue-coated fellow. “Bring + two buckets of water from the boiler-tap, hot and clean. Clean, mind you!” + The man nodded and limped away. “Anything else, Doctor?” asked + the agent. “Got towels?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And I’m not a doctor—not for forty years. But I’m + the nearest thing to it in this shambles. Who are you?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker explained. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he + said and passed into the subdued and tremulous crowd. + </p> + <p> + On the outskirts loitered a lank, idle young man clad beyond the glories + of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck’s highest-colored imaginings. + </p> + <p> + “Hurt?” asked Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the youth. + </p> + <p> + “Can you run three miles?” + </p> + <p> + “I fancy so.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you take an urgent message to be wired from Manzanita?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said the youth with good-will. + </p> + <p> + Tearing a leaf from his pocket-ledger, Banneker scribbled a dispatch which + is still preserved in the road’s archives as giving more vital + information in fewer words than any other railroad document extant. He + instructed the messenger where to find a substitute telegrapher. + </p> + <p> + “Answer?” asked the youth, unfurling his long legs. + </p> + <p> + “No,” returned Banneker, and the courier, tossing his coat + off, took the road. + </p> + <p> + Banneker turned back to the improvised hospital. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to move these people into the cars,” he said + to the man in charge. “The berths are being made up now.” + </p> + <p> + The other nodded. Banneker gathered helpers and superintended the + transfer. One of the passengers, an elderly lady who had shown no sign of + grave injury, died smiling courageously as they were lifting her. + </p> + <p> + It gave Banneker a momentary shock of helpless responsibility. Why should + she have been the one to die? Only five minutes before she had spoken to + him in self-possessed, even tones, saying that her traveling-bag contained + camphor, ammonia, and iodine if he needed them. She had seemed a reliable, + helpful kind of lady, and now she was dead. It struck Banneker as + improbable and, in a queer sense, discriminatory. Remembering the slight, + ready smile with which she had addressed him, he felt as if he had + suffered a personal loss; he would have liked to stay and work over her, + trying to discover if there might not be some spark of life remaining, to + be cherished back into flame, but the burly old man’s decisive + “Gone,” settled that. Besides, there were other things, + official things to be looked to. + </p> + <p> + A full report would be expected of him, as to the cause of the accident. + The presence of the boulder in the wreckage explained that grimly. It was + now his routine duty to collect the names of the dead and wounded, and + such details as he could elicit. He went about it briskly, + conscientiously, and with distaste. All this would go to the claim agent + of the road eventually and might serve to mitigate the total of damages + exacted of the company. Vaguely Banneker resented such probable penalties + as unfair; the most unremitting watchfulness could not have detected the + subtle undermining of that fatal boulder. But essentially he was not + interested in claims and damages. His sensitive mind hovered around the + mystery of death; that file of crumpled bodies, the woman of the stilled + smile, the man fondling a limp hand, weeping quietly. Officially, he was a + smooth-working bit of mechanism. As an individual he probed tragic depths + to which he was alien otherwise than by a large and vague sympathy. Facts + of the baldest were entered neatly; but in the back of his eager brain + Banneker was storing details of a far different kind and of no earthly use + to a railroad corporation. + </p> + <p> + He became aware of some one waiting at his elbow. The lank young man had + spoken to him twice. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Banneker sharply. “Oh, it’s you! How + did you get back so soon?” + </p> + <p> + “Under the hour,” replied the other with pride. “Your + message has gone. The operator’s a queer duck. Dealing faro. Made me + play through a case before he’d quit. I stung him for twenty. Here’s + some stuff I thought might be useful.” + </p> + <p> + From a cotton bag he discharged a miscellaneous heap of patent + preparations; salves, ointments, emollients, liniments, plasters. + </p> + <p> + “All I could get,” he explained. “No drug-store in the + funny burg.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Banneker. “You’re all right. + Want another job?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said the lily of the field with undiminished + good-will. + </p> + <p> + “Go and help the white-whiskered old boy in the Pullman yonder.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’d chase me,” returned the other calmly. “He’s + my uncle. He thinks I’m no use.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he? Well, suppose you get names and addresses of the slightly + injured for me, then. Here’s your coat.” + </p> + <p> + “Tha-anks,” drawled the young man. He was turning away to his + new duties when a thought struck him. “Making a list?” he + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. For my report.” + </p> + <p> + “Got a name with the initials I. O. W.?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker ran through the roster in the pocket-ledger. “Not yet. Some + one that’s hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know what became of her. Peach of a girl. Black hair, + big, sleepy, black eyes with a fire in ’em. Dressed <i>right</i>. + Traveling alone, and minding her own business, too. Had a stateroom in + that Pullman there in the ditch. Noticed her initials on her + traveling-bag.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen her since the smash?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know. Got a kind of confused recklection of seeing her + wobbling around at the side of the track. Can’t be sure, though. + Might have been me.” + </p> + <p> + “Might have been you? How could—” + </p> + <p> + “Wobbly, myself. Mixed in my thinks. When I came to I was pretty + busy putting my lunch,” explained the other with simple realism. + “One of Mr. Pullman’s seats butted me in the stomach. They ain’t + upholstered as soft as you’d think to look at ’em. I went + reeling around, looking for Miss I. O. W., she being alone, you know, and + I thought she might need some looking after. And I had that idea of having + seen her with her hand to her head dazed and running—yes; that’s + it, she was running. Wow!” said the young man fervently. “She + was a pretty thing! You don’t suppose—” He turned + hesitantly to the file of bodies, now decently covered with sheets. + </p> + <p> + For a grisly instant Banneker thought of the one mangled monstrosity—<i>that</i> + to have been so lately loveliness and charm, with deep fire in its eyes + and perhaps deep tenderness and passion in its heart. He dismissed the + thought as being against the evidence and entered the initials in his + booklet. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll look out for her,” said he. “Probably she’s + forward somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + Without respite he toiled until a long whistle gave notice of the return + of the locomotive which had gone forward to meet the delayed special from + Stanwood. Human beings were clinging about it in little clusters like + bees; physicians, nurses, officials, and hospital attendants. The + dispatcher from Stanwood listened to Banneker’s brief report, and + sent him back to Manzanita, with a curt word of approval for his work. + </p> + <p> + Banneker’s last sight of the wreck, as he paused at the curve, was + the helpful young man perched on the rear heap of wreckage which had been + the observation car, peering anxiously into its depths (“Looking for + I. O. W. probably,” surmised the agent), and two commercial + gentlemen from the smoker whiling away a commercially unproductive hiatus + by playing pinochle on a suitcase held across their knees. Glancing at the + vast, swollen, blue-black billows rolling up the sky, Banneker guessed + that their game would be shortly interrupted. + </p> + <p> + He hoped that the dead would not get wet. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + Back in his office, Banneker sent out the necessary wires, and learned + from westward that it might be twelve hours before the break in the track + near Stanwood could be fixed up. Then he settled down to his report. + </p> + <p> + Like his earlier telegram, the report was a little masterpiece of concise + information. Not a word in it that was not dry, exact, meaningful. This + was the more to the writer’s credit in that his brain was seething + with impressions, luminous with pictures, aflash with odds and ends of + minor but significant things heard and seen and felt. It was his first + inner view of tragedy and of the reactions of the human creature, brave or + stupid or merely absurd, to a crisis. For all of this he had an outlet of + expression. + </p> + <p> + Taking from the wall a file marked “Letters. Private"-it was 5 S + 0027, and one of his most used purchases—he extracted some sheets of + a special paper and, sitting at his desk, wrote and wrote and wrote, + absorbedly, painstakingly, happily. Wind swept the outer world into a + vortex of wild rain; the room boomed and trembled with the reverberations + of thunder. Twice the telegraph instrument broke in on him; but these + matters claimed only the outer shell; the soul of the man was concerned + with committing its impressions of other souls to the secrecy of white + paper, destined to personal and inviolable archives. + </p> + <p> + Some one entered the waiting-room. There was a tap on his door. Raising + his head impatiently, Banneker saw, through the window already dimming + with the gathering dusk, a large roan horse, droopy and disconsolate in + the downpour. He jumped up and threw open his retreat. A tall woman, + slipping out of a streaming poncho, entered. The simplicity, verging upon + coarseness, of her dress detracted nothing from her distinction of + bearing. + </p> + <p> + “Is there trouble on the line?” she asked in a voice of + peculiar clarity. + </p> + <p> + “Bad trouble, Miss Camilla,” answered Banneker. He pushed + forward a chair, but she shook her head. “A loosened rock smashed + into Number Three in the Cut. Eight dead, and a lot more in bad shape. + They’ve got doctors and nurses from Stanwood. But the track’s + out below. And from what I get on the wire”—he nodded toward + the east—“it’ll be out above before long.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d better go up there,” said she. Her lips grew + bloodless as she spoke and there was a look of effort and pain in her + face. + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t think so. But if you’ll go over to the town + and see that Torrey gets his place cleaned up a bit, I suppose some of the + passengers will be coming in pretty soon.” + </p> + <p> + She made a quick gesture of repulsion. “Women can’t go to + Torrey’s,” she said. “It’s too filthy. Besides—I’ll + take in the women, if there aren’t too many and I can pick up a + buckboard in Manzanita.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. “That’ll be better, if any come in. Give me their + names, won’t you? I have to keep track of them, you know.” + </p> + <p> + The manner of the two was that of familiars, of friends, though there was + a touch of deference in Banneker’s bearing, too subtly personal to + be attributed to his official status. He went out to adjust the visitor’s + poncho, and, swinging her leg across the Mexican saddle of her horse with + the mechanical ease of one habituated to this mode of travel, she was off. + </p> + <p> + Again the agent returned to his unofficial task and was instantly + submerged in it. Impatiently he interrupted himself to light the lamps and + at once resumed his pen. An emphatic knock at his door only caused him to + shake his head. The summons was repeated. With a sigh Banneker gathered + the written sheets, enclosed them in 5 S 0027, and restored that + receptacle to its place. Meantime the knocking continued impatiently, + presently pointed by a deep— + </p> + <p> + “Any one inside there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Banneker, opening to face the bulky old man who + had cared for the wounded. “What’s wanted?” + </p> + <p> + Uninvited, and with an assured air, the visitor stepped in. + </p> + <p> + “I am Horace Vanney,” he announced. + </p> + <p> + Banneker waited. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know my name?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + In no wise discountenanced by the matter-of-fact negative, Mr. Vanney, + still unsolicited, took a chair. “You would if you read the + newspapers,” he observed. + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “The New York papers,” pursued the other, benignly + explanatory. “It doesn’t matter. I came in to say that I shall + make it my business to report your energy and efficiency to your + superiors.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Banneker politely. + </p> + <p> + “And I can assure you that my commendation will carry weight. + Weight, sir.” + </p> + <p> + The agent accepted this with a nod, obviously unimpressed. In fact, Mr. + Vanney suspected with annoyance, he was listening not so much to these + encouraging statements as to some unidentified noise outside. The agent + raised the window and addressed some one who had approached through the + steady drive of the rain. A gauntleted hand thrust through the window a + slip of paper which he took. As he moved, a ray of light from the lamp, + unblocked by his shoulder, fell upon the face of the person in the + darkness, illuminating it to the astounded eyes of Mr. Horace Vanney. + </p> + <p> + “Two of them are going home with me,” said a voice. “Will + you send these wires to the addresses?” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” replied Banneker, “and thank you. + Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Who was that?” barked Mr. Vanney, half rising. + </p> + <p> + “A friend of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I would swear to that face.” He seemed quite excited. “I + would swear to it anywhere. It is unforgettable. That was Camilla Van + Arsdale. Was she in the wreck?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tell me that it wasn’t she! Don’t try to + tell me, for I won’t believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not trying to tell you anything,” Banneker pointed + out. + </p> + <p> + “True; you’re not. You’re close-mouthed enough. But—Camilla + Van Arsdale! Incredible! Does she live here?” + </p> + <p> + “Here or hereabouts.” + </p> + <p> + “You must give me the address. I must surely go and see her.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you a friend of Miss Van Arsdale?” + </p> + <p> + “I could hardly say so much. A friend of her family, rather. She + would remember me, I am sure. And, in any case, she would know my name. + Where did you say she lived?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I said.” + </p> + <p> + “Mystery-making!” The big man’s gruffness had a + suggestion of amusement in it. “But of course it would be simple + enough to find out from town.” + </p> + <p> + “See here, Mr. Vanney, Miss Van Arsdale is still something of an + invalid—” + </p> + <p> + “After all these years,” interposed the other, in the tone of + one who ruminates upon a marvel. + </p> + <p> + “—and I happen to know that it isn’t well for—that + is, she doesn’t care to see strangers, particularly from New York.” + </p> + <p> + The old man stared. “Are you a gentleman?” he asked with + abrupt surprise. + </p> + <p> + “A gentleman?” repeated Banneker, taken aback. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said the visitor earnestly. “I + meant no offense. You are doubtless quite right. As for any intrusion, I + assure you there will be none.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker nodded, and with that nod dismissed the subject quite as + effectually as Mr. Horace Vanney himself could have done. “Did you + attend all the injured?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “All the serious ones, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Was there a young girl among them, dark and good-looking, whose + name began—” + </p> + <p> + “The one my addle-brained young nephew has been pestering me about? + Miss I. O. W.?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He reported her to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I handled no such case that I recall. Now, as to your own + helpfulness, I wish to make clear that I appreciate it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanney launched into a flowery tribute of the after-dinner variety, + leaning forward to rest a hand upon Banneker’s desk as he spoke. + When the speech was over and the hand withdrawn, something remained among + the strewn papers. Banneker regarded it with interest. It showed a blotch + of yellow upon green and a capital C. Picking it up, he looked from it to + its giver. + </p> + <p> + “A little tribute,” said that gentleman: “a slight + recognition of your services.” His manner suggested that + hundred-dollar bills were inconsiderable trifles, hardly requiring the + acknowledgment of thanks. + </p> + <p> + In this case the bill did not secure such acknowledgment. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t owe me anything,” stated the agent. “I + can’t take this!” + </p> + <p> + “What! Pride? Tut-tut.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” asked Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Finding no immediate and appropriate answer to this simple question, Mr. + Vanney stared. + </p> + <p> + “The company pays me. There’s no reason why you should pay me. + If anything, I ought to pay you for what you did at the wreck. But I’m + not proposing to. Of course I’m putting in my report a statement + about your help.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanney’s cheek flushed. Was this composed young hireling making + sport of him? + </p> + <p> + “Tut-tut!” he said again, this time with obvious intent to + chide in his manner. “If I see fit to signify my appreciation—remember, + I am old enough to be your father.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you ought to have better judgment,” returned Banneker + with such candor and good-humor that the visitor was fairly discomfited. + </p> + <p> + An embarrassing silence—embarrassing, that is, to the older man; the + younger seemed not to feel it—was happily interrupted by the advent + of the lily-clad messenger. + </p> + <p> + Hastily retrieving his yellow-back, which he subjected to some furtive and + occult manipulations, Mr. Vanney, after a few words, took his departure. + </p> + <p> + Banneker invited the newcomer to take the chair thus vacated. As he did so + he brushed something to the floor and picked it up. + </p> + <p> + “Hello! What’s this? Looks like a hundred-bucker. Yours?” + He held out the bill. + </p> + <p> + Banneker shook his head. “Your uncle left it.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t a habit of his,” replied the other. + </p> + <p> + “Give it to him for me, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Any message?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + The newcomer grinned. “I see,” he said. “He’ll be + bored when he gets this back. He isn’t a bad old bird, but he don’t + savvy some things. So you turned him down, did you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he offer you a job and a chance to make your way in the world + in one of his banks, beginning at ten-per?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “He will to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt it.” + </p> + <p> + The other gave a thought to the bill. “Perhaps you’re right. + He likes ‘em meek and obedient. He’d make a woolly lamb out of you. + Most fellows would jump at the chance.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t.” + </p> + <p> + “My name’s Herbert Cressey.” He handed the agent a card. + “Philadelphia is my home, but my New York address is on there, too. + Ever get East?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been to Chicago.” + </p> + <p> + “Chicago?” The other stared. “What’s that got to + do with—Oh, I see. You’ll be coming to New York one of these + days, though.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure as a gun. A chap that can handle a situation like you handled + the wreck isn’t going to stick in a little sand-heap like this.” + </p> + <p> + “It suits me here.” + </p> + <p> + “No! Does it? I’d think you’d die of it. Well, when you + do get East look me up, will you? I mean it; I’d like to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + “And if there’s anything I can do for you any time, drop me a + line.” + </p> + <p> + The sumptuous ripple and gleam of the young man’s faultless coat, + registered upon Banneker’s subconscious memory as it had fallen at + his feet, recalled itself to him. + </p> + <p> + “What store do you buy your clothes at?” + </p> + <p> + “Store?” Cressey did not smile. “I don’t buy + ’em at a store. I have ’em made by a tailor. Mertoun, 505 + Fifth Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + “Would he make me a suit?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes. I’ll give you a card to him and you go in there + when you’re in New York and pick out what you want.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! He wouldn’t make them and send them out here to me? + Sears-Roebuck do, if you send your measure. They’re in Chicago.” + </p> + <p> + “I never had any duds built in Chicago, so I don’t know them. + But I shouldn’t think Mertoun would want to fit a man he’d + never seen. They like to do things <i>right</i>, at Mertoun’s. Ought + to, too; they stick you enough for it.” + </p> + <p> + “How much?” + </p> + <p> + “Not much short of a hundred for a sack suit.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker was amazed. The choicest “made-to-measure” in his + Universal Guide, “Snappy, fashionable, and up to the minute,” + came to less than half of that. + </p> + <p> + His admiring eye fell upon his visitor’s bow-tie, faultless and + underanged throughout the vicissitudes of that arduous day, and he yearned + to know whether it was “made-up” or self-confected. + Sears-Roebuck were severely impartial as between one practice and the + other, offering a wide range in each variety. He inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, tied it myself, of course,” returned Cressey. “Nobody + wears the ready-made kind. It’s no trick to do it. I’ll show + you, any time.” + </p> + <p> + They fell into friendly talk about the wreck. + </p> + <p> + It was ten-thirty when Banneker finished his much-interrupted writing. + Going out to the portable house, he lighted an oil-stove and proceeded to + make a molasses pie. He was due for a busy day on the morrow and might not + find time to take the mile walk to the hotel for dinner, as was his + general habit. With the store of canned goods derived from the mail-order + catalogue, he could always make shift to live. Besides, he was young + enough to relish keenly molasses pie and the manufacture of it. Having + concluded his cookery in strict accordance with the rules set forth in the + guide to this art, he laid it out on the sill to cool over night. + </p> + <p> + Tired though he was, his brain was too busy for immediate sleep. He + returned to his den, drew out a book and began to read with absorption. + That in which he now sought release and distraction was not the <i>magnum + opus</i> of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck, but the work of a less practical and + popular writer, being in fact the “Eve of St. Agnes,” by John + Keats. Soothed and dreamy, he put out the lights, climbed to his living + quarters above the office, and fell asleep. It was then eleven-thirty and + his official day had terminated five hours earlier. + </p> + <p> + At one o’clock he arose and patiently descended the stairs again. + Some one was hammering on the door. He opened without inquiry, which was + not the part of wisdom in that country and at that hour. His pocket-flash + gleamed on a thin young man in a black-rubber coat who, with head and + hands retracted as far as possible from the pouring rain, resembled a + disconsolate turtle with an insufficient carapace. + </p> + <p> + “I’m Gardner, of the Angelica City Herald,” explained + the untimely visitor. + </p> + <p> + Banneker was surprised. That a reporter should come all the way from the + metropolis of the Southwest to his wreck—he had already established + proprietary interest in it—was gratifying. Furthermore, for reasons + of his own, he was glad to see a journalist. He took him in and lighted up + the office. + </p> + <p> + “Had to get a horse and ride to Manzanita to interview old Vanney + and a couple of other big guys from the East. My first story’s on + the wire,” explained the newcomer offhand. “I want some + local-color stuff for my second day follow-up.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be hard to do that,” said Banneker interestedly, + “when you haven’t seen any of it yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Patchwork and imagination,” returned the other wearily. + “That’s what I get special rates for. Now, if I’d had + your chance, right there on the spot, with the whole stage-setting around + one—Lordy! How a fellow could write that!” + </p> + <p> + “Not so easy,” murmured the agent. “You get confused. It’s + a sort of blur, and when you come to put it down, little things that aren’t + really important come up to the surface—” + </p> + <p> + “Put it down?” queried the other with a quick look. “Oh, + I see. Your report for the company.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I wasn’t thinking of that.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you write other things?” asked the reporter carelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just foolery.” The tone invited—at least it did not + discourage—further inquiry. Mr. Gardner was bored. Amateurs who + “occasionally write” were the bane of him who, having a + signature of his own in the leading local paper, represented to the + aspiring mind the gilded and lofty peaks of the unattainable. However he + must play this youth as a source of material. + </p> + <p> + “Ever try for the papers?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. I’ve thought maybe I might get a chance sometime as + a sort of local correspondent around here,” was the diffident reply. + </p> + <p> + Gardner repressed a grin. Manzanita would hardly qualify as a news center. + Diplomacy prompted him to state vaguely that there was always a chance for + good stuff locally. + </p> + <p> + “On a big story like this,” he added, “of course there’d + be nothing doing except for the special man sent out to cover it.” + </p> + <p> + “No. Well, I didn’t write my—what I wrote, with any idea + of getting it printed.” + </p> + <p> + The newspaper man sighed wearily, sighed like a child and lied like a man + of duty. “I’d like to see it.” + </p> + <p> + Without a trace of hesitation or self-consciousness Banneker said, “All + right,” and, taking his composition from its docket, motioned the + other to the light. Mr. Gardner finished and turned the first sheet before + making any observation. Then he bent a queer look upon Banneker and + grunted: + </p> + <p> + “What do you call this stuff, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “Just putting down what I saw.” + </p> + <p> + Gardner read on. “What about this, about a Pullman sleeper ‘elegant + as a hotel bar and rigid as a church pew’? Where do you get that?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker looked startled. “I don’t know. It just struck me + that is the way a Pullman is.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is,” admitted the visitor, and continued to read. + “And this guy with the smashed finger that kept threatening to + ‘soom’; is that right?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it’s right. You don’t think I’d make it + up! That reminds me of something.” And he entered a memo to see the + litigious-minded complainant again, for these are the cases which often + turn up in the courts with claims for fifty-thousand-dollar damages and + heartrending details of all-but-mortal internal injuries. + </p> + <p> + Silence held the reader until he had concluded the seventh and last sheet. + Not looking at Banneker, he said: + </p> + <p> + “So that’s your notion of reporting the wreck of the swellest + train that crosses the continent, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t pretend to be a report,” disclaimed the + writer. “It’s pretty bad, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s rotten!” Gardner paused. “From a news-desk + point of view. Any copy-reader would chuck it. Unless I happened to sign + it,” he added. “Then they’d cuss it out and let it pass, + and the dear old pin-head public would eat it up.” + </p> + <p> + “If it’s of any use to you—” + </p> + <p> + “Not so, my boy, not so! I might pinch your wad if you left it + around loose, or even your last cigarette, but not your stuff. Let me take + it along, though; it may give me some ideas. I’ll return it. Now, + where can I get a bed in the town?” + </p> + <p> + “Nowhere. Everything’s filled. But I can give you a hammock + out in my shack.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s better. I’ll take it. Thanks.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker kept his guest awake beyond the limits of decent hospitality, + asking him questions. + </p> + <p> + The reporter, constantly more interested in this unexpected find of a real + personality in an out-of-the-way minor station of the high desert, + meditated a character study of “the hero of the wreck,” but + could not quite contrive any peg whereon to hang the wreath of heroism. By + his own modest account, Banneker had been competent but wholly + unpicturesque, though the characters in his sketch, rude and unformed + though it was, stood out clearly. As to his own personal history, the + agent was unresponsive. At length the guest, apologizing for untimely + weariness, it being then 3.15 A.M., yawned his way to the portable shack. + </p> + <p> + He slept heavily, except for a brief period when the rain let up. In the + morning—which term seasoned newspaper men apply to twelve noon and + the hour or two thereafter—he inquired of Banneker, “Any + tramps around here?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered the agent, “Not often. There were a pair + yesterday morning, but they went on.” + </p> + <p> + “Some one was fussing around the place about first light. I was too + sleepy to get up. I yipped and they beat it. I don’t think they got + inside.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker investigated. Nothing was missing from within the shack. But + outside he made a distressing discovery. + </p> + <p> + His molasses pie was gone. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + “To accomplish a dessert as simple and inexpensive as it is tasty,” + prescribes The Complete Manual of Cookery, p. 48, “take one cup of + thick molasses—” But why should I infringe a copyright when + the culinary reader may acquire the whole range of kitchen lore by + expending eighty-nine cents plus postage on 39 T 337? Banneker had + faithfully followed the prescribed instructions. The result had certainly + been simple and inexpensive; presumably it would have proven tasty. He + regretted and resented the rape of the pie. What aroused greater concern, + however, was the presence of thieves. In the soft ground near the window + he found some rather small footprints which suggested that it was the + younger of the two hoboes who had committed the depredation. + </p> + <p> + Theorizing, however, was not the order of his day. Routine and + extra-routine claimed all his time. There was his supplementary report to + make out; the marooned travelers in Manzanita to be looked after and their + bitter complaints to be listened to; consultations over the wire as to the + condition and probabilities of the roadbed, for the floods had come again; + and in and out of it all, the busy, weary, indefatigable Gardner, giving + to the agent as much information as he asked from him. 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. + </p> + <p> + Not until late that afternoon did a rescue train limp cautiously along an + improvised track to set the interrupted travelers on their way. Gardner + went on it, leaving an address and an invitation to “keep in touch.” + Mr. Vanney took his departure with a few benign and well-chosen words of + farewell, accompanied by the assurance that he would “make it his + special purpose to commend,” and so on. 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. With the others departed Miss + Camilla Van Arsdale’s two emergency guests, one of them the rather + splendid young woman who had helped with the wounded. They invaded + Banneker’s office with supplementary telegrams and talked about + their hostess with that freedom which women of the world use before dogs + or uniformed officials. + </p> + <p> + “What a woman!” said the amateur nurse. + </p> + <p> + “And what a house!” supplemented the other, a faded and lined + middle-aged wife who had just sent a reassuring and very long wire to a + husband in Pittsburgh. + </p> + <p> + “Very much the châtelaine; grande dame and that sort of thing,” + pursued the other. “One might almost think her English.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” The other shook her head positively. “Old + American. As old and as good as her name. You wouldn’t flatter her + by guessing her to be anything else. I dare say she would consider the + average British aristocrat a little shoddy and loud.” + </p> + <p> + “So they are when they come over here. But what on earth is her type + doing out here, buried with a one-eyed, half-breed manservant?” + </p> + <p> + “And a concert grand piano. Don’t forget that. She tunes it + herself, too. Did you notice the tools? A possible romance. You’ve + quite a nose for such things, Sue. Couldn’t you get anything out of + her?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s much too good a nose to put in the crack of a door,” + retorted the pretty woman. “I shouldn’t care to lay myself + open to being snubbed by her. It might be painful.” + </p> + <p> + “It probably would.” The Pittsburgher turned to Banneker with + a change of tone, implying that he could not have taken any possible heed + of what went before. “Has Miss Van Arsdale lived here long, do you + know?” + </p> + <p> + The agent looked at her intently for a moment before replying: “Longer + than I have.” He transferred his gaze to the pretty woman. “You + two were her guests, weren’t you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The visitors glanced at each other, half amused, half aghast. The tone and + implication of the question had been too significant to be misunderstood. + “Well, of all extraordinary—” began one of them under + her breath; and the other said more loudly, “I really beg—” + and then she, too, broke off. + </p> + <p> + They went out. “Châtelaine and knightly defender,” commented + the younger one in the refuge of the outer office. “Have we been + dumped off a train into the midst of the Middle Ages? Where do you get + station-agents like that?” + </p> + <p> + “The one at our suburban station chews tobacco and says ‘Marm’ + through his nose.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker emerged, seeking the conductor of the special with a message. + </p> + <p> + “He is rather a beautiful young thing, isn’t he?” she + added. + </p> + <p> + Returning, he helped them on the train with their hand-luggage. When the + bustle and confusion of dispatching an extra were over, he sat down to + think. But not of Miss Camilla Van Arsdale. That was an old story, though + its chapters were few, and none of them as potentially eventful as this + intrusion of Vanneys and female chatterers. + </p> + <p> + It was the molasses pie that stuck in his mind. There was no time to make + another. Further, the thought of depredators hanging about disturbed him. + That shack of his was full of Aladdin treasures, delivered by the summoned + genii of the Great Book. Though it was secured by Little Guardian locks + and fortified with the Scarem Buzz alarm, he did not feel sure of it. He + decided to sleep there that night with his .45-caliber Sure-shot revolver. + Let them come again; he’d give ’em a lesson! On second + thought, he rebaited the window-ledge with a can of Special Juicy Apricot + Preserve. At ten o’clock he turned in, determined to sleep lightly, + and immediately plunged into fathomless depths of unconsciousness, lulled + by a singing wind and the drone of the rain. + </p> + <p> + A light, flashing across his eyes, awakened him. For a moment he lay, + dazed, confused by the gentle and unfamiliar oscillations of his hammock. + Another flicker of light and a rumble of thunder brought him to his full + senses. The rain had degenerated into a casual drizzle and the wind had + withdrawn into the higher areas. He heard some one moving outside. + </p> + <p> + Very quietly he reached out to the stand at his elbow, got his revolver + and his flashlight, and slipped to the floor. The malefactor without was + approaching the window. Another flash of lightning would have revealed + much to Banneker had he not been crouching close under the sill, on the + inside, so that the radiance of his light, when he found the button, + should not expose him to a straight shot. + </p> + <p> + A hand fumbled at the open window. Finger on trigger, Banneker held up his + flashlight in his left hand and irradiated the spot. He saw the hand, + groping, and on one of its fingers something which returned a more + brilliant gleam than the electric ray. In his crass amazement, the agent + straightened up, a full mark for murder, staring at a diamond-and-ruby + ring set upon a short, delicate finger. + </p> + <p> + No sound came from outside. But the hand became instantly tense. It fell + upon the sill and clutched it so hard that the knuckles stood out, white, + strained and garish. Banneker’s own strong hand descended upon the + wrist. A voice said softly and tremulously: + </p> + <p> + “Please!” + </p> + <p> + The appeal went straight to Banneker’s heart and quivered there, + like a soft flame, like music heard in an unrealizable dream. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” he asked, and the voice said: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t hurt me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I?” returned Banneker stupidly. + </p> + <p> + “Some one did,” said the voice. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” he demanded fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you let me go?” pleaded the voice. + </p> + <p> + In the shock of his discovery he had released the flash-lever so that this + colloquy passed in darkness. Now he pressed it. A girlish figure was + revealed, one protective arm thrown across the eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t strike me,” said the girl again, and again + Banneker’s heart was shaken within him by such tremors as the crisis + of some deadly fear might cause. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t be afraid,” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never been afraid before,” she said, hanging her + weight away from him. “Won’t you let me go?” + </p> + <p> + His grip relaxed slightly, then tightened again. “Where to?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said the appealing voice mournfully. + </p> + <p> + An inspiration came to Banneker. “Are you afraid of me?” he + asked quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Of every thing. Of the night.” + </p> + <p> + He pressed the flash into her hand, turning the light upon himself. + “Look,” he said. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to him that she could not fail to read in his face the profound + and ardent wish to help her; to comfort and assure an uneasy and + frightened spirit wandering in the night. + </p> + <p> + He heard a little, soft sigh. “I don’t know you,” said + the voice. “Do I?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered soothingly as if to a child. “I’m + the station-agent here. You must come in out of the wet.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + He tossed an overcoat on over his pajamas, ran to the door and swung it + open. The tiny ray of light advanced, hesitated, advanced again. She + walked into the shack, and immediately the rain burst again upon the outer + world. Banneker’s fleeting impression was of a vivid but dimmed + beauty. He pushed forward a chair, found a blanket for her feet, lighted + the “Quick-heater” oil-stove on which he did his cooking. She + followed him with her eyes, deeply glowing but vague and troubled. + </p> + <p> + “This is not a station,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No. It’s my shack. Are you cold?” + </p> + <p> + “Not very.” She shivered a little. + </p> + <p> + “You say that some one hurt you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They struck me. It made my head feel queer.” + </p> + <p> + A murderous fury surged into his brain. His hand twitched toward his + revolver. + </p> + <p> + “The hoboes,” he whispered under his breath. “But they + didn’t rob you,” he said aloud, looking at the jeweled hand. + </p> + <p> + “No. I don’t think so. I ran away.” + </p> + <p> + “Where was it?” + </p> + <p> + “On the train.” + </p> + <p> + Enlightenment burst upon him. “You’re sure—” he + began. Then, “Tell me all you can about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t remember anything. I was in my stateroom in the car. + The door was open. Some one must have come in and struck me. Here.” + She put her left hand tenderly to her head. + </p> + <p> + Banneker, leaning over her, only half suppressed a cry. Back of the temple + rose a great, puffed, leaden-blue wale. + </p> + <p> + “Sit still,” he said. “I’ll fix it.” + </p> + <p> + While he busied himself heating water, getting out clean bandages and + gauze, she leaned back with half-closed eyes in which there was neither + fear nor wonder nor curiosity: only a still content. Banneker washed the + wound very carefully. + </p> + <p> + “Does it hurt?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “My head feels queer. Inside.” + </p> + <p> + “I think the hair ought to be cut away around the place. Right here. + It’s quite raw.” + </p> + <p> + It was glorious hair. Not black, as Cressey had described it in his hasty + sketch of the unknown I.O.W.; too alive with gleams and glints of luster + for that. Nor were her eyes black, but rather of a deep-hued, clouded + hazel, showing troubled shadows between their dark-lashed, heavy lids. Yet + Banneker made no doubt but that this was the missing girl of Cressey’s + inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “May I?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Cut my hair?” she asked. “Oh, no!” + </p> + <p> + “Just a little, in one place. I think I can do it so that it won’t + show. There’s so much of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Please,” she answered, yielding. + </p> + <p> + He was deft. She sat quiet and soothed under his ministerings. Completed, + the bandage looked not too unworkmanlike, and was cool and comforting to + the hot throb of the wound. + </p> + <p> + “Our doctor went back on the train, worse luck!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want any other doctor,” she murmured. “I’d + rather have you.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’m not a doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she acquiesced. “Who are you? Did you tell me? You + are one of the passengers, aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m the station-agent at Manzanita.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment she looked at him wonderingly. “Are you? I don’t + seem to understand. My head is very queer.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t try to. Here’s some tea and crackers.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m starved,” she said. + </p> + <p> + With subtle stirrings of delight, he watched her eat the bit that he had + prepared for her while heating the water. But he was wise enough to know + that she must not have much while the extent of her injury was still + undetermined. + </p> + <p> + “Are you wet?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “I haven’t been dry since the flood.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a room with a real stove in it over the station. I’ll + build a fire, and you must take off your wet things and go to bed and + sleep. If you need anything you can hammer on the floor.” + </p> + <p> + “But you—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be in my office, below. I’m on night duty + to-night,” said he, tactfully fabricating. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. You’re awfully kind.” + </p> + <p> + He adjusted the oil-stove, threw a warmed blanket over her feet, and + hurried to his room to build the promised fire. When he came back she + smiled. + </p> + <p> + “You are good to me! It’s stupid of me—my head is so + queer—did you say you were—” + </p> + <p> + “The station-agent. My name is Banneker. I’m responsible to + the company for your safety and comfort. You’re not to worry about + it, nor think about it, nor ask any questions.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she agreed, and rose. + </p> + <p> + He threw the blanket around her shoulders. At the protective touch she + slipped her hand through his arm. So they went out into the night. + </p> + <p> + Mounting the stairs, she stumbled, and for a moment he felt the firm, warm + pressure of her body against him. It shook him strangely. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry,” she murmured. And, a moment later, “Good-night, + and thank you.” + </p> + <p> + Taking the hand which she held out, he returned her good-night. The door + closed. He turned away and was halfway down the flight when a sudden + thought recalled him. He tapped on the door. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked the serene music of the voice. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to bother you, but there’s just one thing + I forgot. Please give me your name.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” returned the voice doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “I must report it to the company.” + </p> + <p> + “Must you?” The voice seemed to be vaguely troubled. “To-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t give a thought to it,” he said. “To-morrow + will do just as well. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night,” she said again. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t remember her own name!” thought Banneker, moved + and pitiful. + </p> + <p> + Darkness and quiet were grateful to him as he entered the office. By sense + of direction he found his chair, and sank into it. Overhead he could hear + the soft sound of her feet moving about the room, his room. Quiet + succeeded. Banneker, leagues removed from sleep, or the hope of it, + despite his bodily weariness, followed the spirit of wonder through + starlit and sunlit realms of dream. + </p> + <p> + The telegraph-receiver clicked. Not his call. But it brought him back to + actualities. He lighted his lamp and brought down the letter-file from + which had been extracted the description of the wreck for Gardner of the + Angelica City Herald. + </p> + <p> + Drawing out the special paper, he looked at the heading and smiled. + “Letters to Nobody.” He took a fresh sheet and began to write. + Through the night he wrote and dreamed and dozed and wrote again. When a + sound of song, faint and sweet and imminent, roused him to lift his + sleep-bowed head from the desk upon which it had sunk, the gray, soiled + light of a stormy morning was in his eyes. The last words he had written + were: + </p> + <p> + “The breast of the world rises and falls with your breathing.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker was twenty-four years old, and had the untainted soul of a boy of + sixteen. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + Overhead she was singing. The voice was clear and sweet and happy. He did + not know the melody; some minor refrain of broken rhythm which seemed + always to die away short of fulfillment. A haunting thing of mystery and + glamour, such mystery and glamour as had irradiated his long and wonderful + night. He heard the door open and then her light footsteps on the stair + outside. Hot-eyed and disheveled, he rose, staggering a little at first as + he hurried to greet her. + </p> + <p> + She stood poised on the lower step. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She made no return to his accost other than a slow smile. “I thought + you were a dream,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m real enough. Are you better? Your head?” + </p> + <p> + She put a hand to the bandage. “It’s sore. Otherwise I’m + quite fit. I’ve slept like the dead.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied mechanically. He was + drinking her in, all the grace and loveliness and wonder of her, himself + quite unconscious of the intensity of his gaze. + </p> + <p> + She accepted the mute tribute untroubled; but there was a suggestion of + puzzlement in the frown which began to pucker her forehead. + </p> + <p> + “You’re really the station-agent?” she asked with a + slight emphasis upon the adverb. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. No reason. Won’t you tell me what happened?” + </p> + <p> + “Come inside.” He held open the door against the wind. + </p> + <p> + “No. It’s musty.” She wrinkled a dainty nose. “Can’t + we talk here? I love the feel of the air and the wet. And the world! I’m + glad I wasn’t killed.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” he said soberly. + </p> + <p> + “When my brain wouldn’t work quite right yesterday, I thought + that some one had hit me. That isn’t so, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Your train was wrecked. You were injured. In the confusion you + must have run away.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I remember being frightened. Terribly frightened. I’d + never been that way before. Outside of that one idea of fear, everything + was mixed up. I ran until I couldn’t run any more and dropped down.” + </p> + <p> + “And then?” + </p> + <p> + “I got up and ran again. Have you ever been afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “Plenty of times.” + </p> + <p> + “I hadn’t realized before that there was anything in the world + to be afraid of. But the thought of that blow, coming so suddenly from + nowhere, and the fear that I might be struck again—it drove me.” + She flung out her hands in a little desperate gesture that twitched at + Banneker’s breath. + </p> + <p> + “You must have been out all night in the rain.”’ + </p> + <p> + “No. I found a sort of cabin in the woods. It was deserted.” + </p> + <p> + “Dutch Cal’s place. It’s only a few rods back in.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw a light from there and that suggested to my muddled brain + that I might get something to eat.” + </p> + <p> + “So you came over here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But the fear came on me again and I didn’t dare knock. I + suppose I prowled.” + </p> + <p> + “Gardner thought he heard ghosts. But ghosts don’t steal + molasses pie.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him solemnly. “Must one steal to get anything to eat + here?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’ll get you + breakfast right away. What will you have? There isn’t much.” + </p> + <p> + “Anything there is. But if I’m to board with you, you must let + me pay my way.” + </p> + <p> + “The company is responsible for that.” + </p> + <p> + Her brooding eyes were still fixed upon him. “You actually are the + agent,” she mused. “That’s quaint.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see anything quaint about it. Now, if you’ll + make yourself comfortable I’ll go over to the shack and rustle + something for breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I’d rather go with you. Perhaps I can help.” + </p> + <p> + Such help as the guest afforded was negligible. When, from sundry of the + Sears-Roebuck cans and bottles, a condensed and preserved sort of meal had + been derived, she set to it with a good grace. + </p> + <p> + “There’s more of a kick in tea than in a cocktail, I believe, + when you really need it,” she remarked gratefully. “You spoke + of a Mr. Gardner. Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “A reporter who spent night before last here.” + </p> + <p> + She dropped her cracker, oleomargarine-side down. “A reporter?” + </p> + <p> + “He came down to write up the wreck. It’s a bad one. Nine + dead, so far.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he still here?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Gone back to Angelica City.” + </p> + <p> + Retrieving her cracker, the guest finished her meal, heartily but + thoughtfully. She insisted on lending a hand to the washing-up process, + and complimented Banneker on his neatness. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t told me your name yet,” he reminded her + when the last shining tin was hung up. + </p> + <p> + “No; I haven’t. What will you do with it when you get it?” + </p> + <p> + “Report it to the company for their lists.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I don’t want it reported to the company?’ + </p> + <p> + “Why on earth shouldn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I may have my reasons. Would it be put in the papers?” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t <i>want</i> it in the papers,” said the girl + with decision. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you want it known that you’re all right? Your + people—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll wire my people. Or you can wire them for me. Can’t + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. But the company has a right to know what has happened to + its passengers.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to me! What has the company done for me but wreck me and give + me an awful bang on the head and lose my baggage and—Oh, I nearly + forgot. I took my traveling-bag when I ran. It’s in the hut. I + wonder if you would get it for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. I’ll go now.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s good of you. And for your own self, but not your old + company, I’ll tell you my name. I’m—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment. Whatever you tell me I’ll have to report.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t,” she returned imperiously. “It’s + in confidence.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t accept it so.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a most extraordinary sta—a most extraordinary + sort of man. Then I’ll give you this much for yourself, and if your + company collects pet names, you can pass it on. My friends call me Io.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I know. You’re I.O.W.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that? And how much more do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “No more. A man on the train reported your initials from your + baggage.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll feel ever so much better when I have that bag. Is there + a hotel near here?” + </p> + <p> + “A sort of one at Manzanita. It isn’t very clean. But there’ll + be a train through to-night and I’ll get you space on that. I’d + better get a doctor for you first, hadn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed! All I need is some fresh things.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker set off at a brisk pace. He found the extravagant little + traveling-case safely closed and locked, and delivered it outside his own + door which was also closed and, he suspected, locked. + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking,” said the soft voice of the girl within. + “Don’t let me interrupt your work.” + </p> + <p> + Beneath, at his routine, Banneker also set himself to think; confused, + bewildered, impossibly conjectural thoughts not unmingled with + semi-official anxiety. Harboring a woman on company property, even though + she were, in some sense, a charge of the company, might be open to + misconceptions. He wished that the mysterious Io would declare herself. + </p> + <p> + At noon she did. She declared herself ready for luncheon. There was about + her a matter-of-fact acceptance of the situation as natural, even + inevitable, which entranced Banneker when it did not appall him. After the + meal was over, the girl seated herself on a low bench which Banneker had + built with his own hands and the Right-and-Ready Tool Kit (9 T 603), her + knee between her clasped hands and an elfish expression on her face. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think,” she suggested, “that we’d + get on quicker if you washed the dishes and I sat here and talked to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t so easy to begin, you know,” she remarked, + nursing her knee thoughtfully. “Am I—Do you find me very much + in the way?’” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t suppress your wild enthusiasm on my account,” she + besought him. “I haven’t interfered with your duties so far, + have I?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Banneker wondering what was coming next. + </p> + <p> + “You see”—her tone became ruminative and confidential—“if + I give you my name and you report it, there’ll be all kinds of a + mix-up. They’ll come after me and take me away.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker dropped a tin on the floor and stood, staring. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t that what you want?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s evident enough that it’s what <i>you</i> want,” + she returned, aggrieved. + </p> + <p> + “No. Not at all,” he disclaimed. “Only—well, out + here—alone—I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you understand that if one had happened to drop out of + the world by chance, it might be desirable to stay out for a while?” + </p> + <p> + “For <i>you</i>? No; I can’t understand that.” + </p> + <p> + “What about yourself?” she challenged with a swift, amused + gleam. “You are certainly staying out of the world here.” + </p> + <p> + “This is my world.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes and voice dropped. “Truly?” she murmured. Then, as he + made no reply, “It isn’t much of a world for a man.” + </p> + <p> + To this his response touched the heights of the unexpected. He stretched + out his arm toward the near window through which could be seen the white + splendor of Mount Carstairs, dim in the wreathing murk. + </p> + <p> + “Lo! For there, amidst the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier + movement sounds and passes, Only winds and rivers, Life and death,” + he quoted. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes glowed with sheer, incredulous astonishment. “How came you + by that Stevenson?” she demanded. “Are you poet as well as + recluse?” + </p> + <p> + “I met him once.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Some other time. We’ve other things to talk of now.” + </p> + <p> + “Some other time? Then I’m to stay!” + </p> + <p> + “In Manzanita?” + </p> + <p> + “Manzanita? No. Here.” + </p> + <p> + “In this station? Alone? But why—” + </p> + <p> + “Because I’m Io Welland and I want to, and I always get what I + want,” she retorted calmly and superbly. + </p> + <p> + “Welland,” he repeated. “Miss I.O. Welland. And the + address is New York, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Her hands grew tense across her knee, and deep in her shadowed eyes there + was a flash. But her voice suggested not only appeal, but almost a hint of + caress as she said: + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to betray a guest? I’ve always heard that + Western hospitality—” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not my guest. You’re the company’s.” + </p> + <p> + “And you won’t take me for yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Be reasonable, Miss Welland.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it’s a question of the conventionalities,” + she mocked. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know or care anything about the conventionalities—” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I,” she interrupted. “Out here.” + </p> + <p> + “—but my guess would be that they apply only to people who + live in the same world. We don’t, you and I.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s rather shrewd of you,” she observed. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t an easy matter to talk about to a young girl, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, it is,” she returned with composure. “Just + take it for granted that I know about all there is to be known and am not + afraid of it. I’m not afraid of anything, I think, except of—of + having to go back just now.” She rose and went to him, looking down + into his eyes. “A woman knows whom she can trust in—in certain + things. That’s her gift, a gift no man has or quite understands. + Dazed as I was last night, I knew I could trust you. I still know it. So + we may dismiss that.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true,” said Banneker, “so far as it goes.” + </p> + <p> + “What farther is there? If it’s a matter of the inconvenience—” + </p> + <p> + “No. You know it isn’t that.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let me stay in this funny little shack just for a few days,” + she pleaded. “If you don’t, I’ll get on to-night’s + train and go on and—and do something I’ll be sorry for all the + rest of my life. And it’ll be your fault! I was going to do it when + the accident prevented. Do you believe in Providence?” + </p> + <p> + “Not as a butt-in,” he answered promptly. “I don’t + believe that Providence would pitch a rock into a train and kill a lot of + people, just to prevent a girl from making a foo—a bad break.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I,” she smiled. “I suppose there’s some kind + of a General Manager over this queer world; but I believe He plays the + game fair and square and doesn’t break the rules He has made + Himself. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t want to play at all!... Oh, + my telegram! I must wire my aunt in New York. I’ll tell her that I’ve + stopped off to visit friends, if you don’t object to that + description as being too compromising,” she added mischievously. She + accepted a pad which he handed her and sat at the table, pondering. + “Mr. Banneker,” she said after a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “If the telegram goes from here, will it be headed by the name of + the station?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “So that inquiry might be made here for me?” + </p> + <p> + “It might, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t want it to be. Couldn’t you leave off the + station?” + </p> + <p> + “Not very well.” + </p> + <p> + “Just for me?” she wheedled. “For your guest that you’ve + been so insistent on keeping,” she added slyly. + </p> + <p> + “The message wouldn’t be accepted.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear! Then I won’t send it.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t notify your family, I must report you to the + company.” + </p> + <p> + “What an irritating sense of duty you have! It must be dreadful to + be afflicted that way. Can’t you suggest something?” she + flashed. “Won’t you do a <i>thing</i> to help me stay? I + believe you don’t want me, after all.” + </p> + <p> + “If the up-train gets through this evening, I’ll give your + wire to the engineer and he’ll transmit it from any office you say.” + </p> + <p> + Childlike with pleasure she clapped her hands. “Of course! Give him + this, will you?” From a bag at her wrist she extracted a five-dollar + bill. “By the way, if I’m to be a guest I must be a paying + guest, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “You can pay for a cot that I’ll get in town,” he + agreed, “and your share of the food.” + </p> + <p> + “But the use of the house, and—and all the trouble I’m + making you,” she said doubtfully. “I ought to pay for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so?” He looked at her with a peculiar expression + which, however, was not beyond the power of her intuition to interpret. + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t,” she declared. + </p> + <p> + Banneker answered her smile with his own, as he resumed his dish-wiping. + Io wrote out her telegram with care. Her next observation startled the + agent. + </p> + <p> + “Are you, by any chance, married?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I’m not. What makes you ask that?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s been a woman in here before.” + </p> + <p> + Confusedly his thoughts flew back to Carlotta. But the Mexican girl had + never been in the shack. He was quite absurdly and inexplicably glad now + that she had not. + </p> + <p> + “A woman?” he said. “Why do you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Something in the arrangement of the place. That hanging, yonder. + And that little vase—it’s good, by the way. The way that + Navajo is placed on the door. One feels it.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s true. A friend of mine came here one day and turned + everything topsy-turvy.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not asking questions just for curiosity. But is that the + reason you didn’t want me to stay?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed, thinking of Miss Van Arsdale. “Heavens, no! Wait till + you meet her. She’s a very wonderful person; but—” + </p> + <p> + “Meet her? Does she live near here, then?” + </p> + <p> + “A few miles away.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose she should come and find me here?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s what I’ve been wishing.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it! Well, it isn’t what I wish at all.” + </p> + <p> + “In fact,” continued the imperturbable Banneker, “I + rather planned to ride over to her place this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, if you please?” + </p> + <p> + “To tell her about you and ask her advice.” + </p> + <p> + Io’s face darkened rebelliously. “Do you think it necessary to + tattle to a woman who is a total stranger to me?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it would be wise to get her view,” he replied, + unmoved. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I think it would be horrid. I think if you do any such thing, + you are—Mr. Banneker! You’re not listening to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Some one is coming through the woods trail,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it’s your local friend.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s my guess.” + </p> + <p> + “Please understand this, Mr. Banneker,” she said with an + obstinate outthrust of her little chin. “I don’t know who your + friend is and I don’t care. If you make it necessary, I can go to + the hotel in town; but while I stay here I won’t have my affairs or + even my presence discussed with any one else.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re too late,” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Out from a hardly discernible opening in the brush shouldered a big roan. + Tossing up his head, he stretched out in the long, easy lope of the + desert-bred, his rider sitting him loosely and with slack bridle. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Miss Van Arsdale,” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + Seated in her saddle the newcomer hailed Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “What news, Ban? Is the wreck cleared up?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But the track is out twenty miles east. Every arroyo and + barranca is bank-high and over.” + </p> + <p> + He had crossed the platform to her. Now she raised her deep-set, quiet + eyes and rested them on the girl. That the station should harbor a visitor + at that hour was not surprising. But the beauty of the stranger caught + Miss Van Arsdale’s regard, and her bearing held it. + </p> + <p> + “A passenger, Ban?” she asked, lowering her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miss Camilla.” + </p> + <p> + “Left over from the wreck?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. “You came in the nick of time. I don’t quite know + what to do with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t she go on the relief train?” + </p> + <p> + “She didn’t show up until last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did she stay the night?” + </p> + <p> + “Here.” + </p> + <p> + “In your office?” + </p> + <p> + “In my room. I worked in the office.” + </p> + <p> + “You should have brought her to me.” + </p> + <p> + “She was hurt. Queer in the head. I’m not sure that she isn’t + so yet.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale swung her tall form easily out of the saddle. The girl + came forward at once, not waiting for Banneker’s introduction, with + a formal gravity. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do? I am Irene Welland.” + </p> + <p> + The older woman took the extended hand. There was courtesy rather than + kindliness in her voice as she asked, “Are you much hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m quite over it, thank you. All but the bandage. Mr. + Banneker was just speaking of you when you rode up, Miss Van Arsdale.” + </p> + <p> + The other smiled wanly. “It is a little startling to hear one’s + name like that, in a voice from another world. When do you go on?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s a point under discussion. Mr. Banneker would, I + believe, summon a special train if he could, in his anxiety to get rid of + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” disclaimed the agent. + </p> + <p> + But Miss Van Arsdale interrupted, addressing the girl: + </p> + <p> + “You must be anxious, yourself, to get back to civilization.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” returned the girl lightly. “This seems a + beautiful locality.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you traveling alone?” + </p> + <p> + The girl flushed a little, but her eyes met the question without wavering. + “Quite alone.” + </p> + <p> + “To the coast?” + </p> + <p> + “To join friends there.” + </p> + <p> + “If they can patch up the washed-out track,” put in Banneker, + “Number Seven ought to get through to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mr. Banneker in his official capacity was almost ready to put + me aboard by force, when I succeeded in gaining a reprieve. Now he calls + you to his rescue.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to do?” inquired Miss Van Arsdale with + lifted brows. + </p> + <p> + “Stay here for a few days, in that funny little house.” She + indicated the portable shack. + </p> + <p> + “That is Mr. Banneker’s own place.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it would do, Miss Welland. It is <i>Miss</i> + Welland, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed. Why wouldn’t it do, Miss Van Arsdale?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I am quite capable of taking care of myself,” returned the + girl calmly. “As for Mr. Banneker, I assume that he is equally + competent. And,” she added with a smiling effrontery, “he’s + quite as much compromised already as he could possibly be by my staying.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker flushed angrily. “There’s no question of my being + compromised,” he began shortly. + </p> + <p> + “You’re wrong, Ban; there is,” Miss Van Arsdale’s + quiet voice cut him short again. “And still more of Miss Welland’s. + What sort of escapade this may be,” she added, turning to the girl, + “I have no idea. But you cannot stay here alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t I?” retorted the other mutinously. “I think + that rests with Mr. Banneker to say. Will you turn me out, Mr. Banneker? + After our agreement?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “You can hardly kidnap me, even with all the conventionalities on + your side,” Miss Welland pointed out to Miss Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + That lady made no answer to the taunt. She was looking at the + station-agent with a humorously expectant regard. He did not disappoint + her. + </p> + <p> + “If I get an extra cot for the shack, Miss Van Arsdale,” he + asked, “could you get your things and come over here to stay?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t be treated like a child!” cried the derelict in + exactly the tone of one, and a very naughty one. “I won’t! I + won’t!” She stamped. + </p> + <p> + Banneker laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a coward,” said Io. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go to the hotel in the town and stay there.” + </p> + <p> + “Think twice before you do that,” advised the woman. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” asked Io, struck by the tone. + </p> + <p> + “Crawly things,” replied Miss Van Arsdale sententiously. + </p> + <p> + “Big, hungry ones,” added Banneker. + </p> + <p> + He could almost feel the little rippling shudders passing across the girl’s + delicate skin. “Oh, I think you’re <i>loathly</i>!” she + cried. “Both of you.” + </p> + <p> + Tears of vexation made lucent the shadowed depths of her eyes. “I’ve + never been treated so in my life!” she declared, overcome by the + self-pity of a struggling soul trammeled by the world’s injustice. + </p> + <p> + “Why not be sensible and stay with me to-night while you think it + all over?” suggested Miss Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” returned the other with an unexpected and + baffling change to the amenable and formal “You are very kind. I’d + be delighted to.” + </p> + <p> + “Pack up your things, then, and I’ll bring an extra horse from + the town. I’ll be back in an hour.” + </p> + <p> + The girl went up to Banneker’s room, and got her few belongings + together. Descending she found the agent busy among his papers. He put + them aside and came out to her. + </p> + <p> + “Your telegram ought to get off from Williams sometime to-morrow,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + “That will be time enough,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Will there be any answer?” + </p> + <p> + “How can there be? I haven’t given any address.” + </p> + <p> + “I could wire Williams later.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I don’t want to be bothered. I want to be let alone. I’m + tired.” + </p> + <p> + He cast a glance about the lowering horizon. “More rain coming,” + he said. “I wish you could have seen the desert in the sunshine.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll wait.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you?” he cried eagerly. “It may be quite a while.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Miss Van Arsdale will keep me, as you wouldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “You know that it isn’t because I don’t + want you to stay. But she is right. It just wouldn’t do.... Here she + comes now.” + </p> + <p> + Io took a step nearer to him. “I’ve been looking at your + books.” + </p> + <p> + He returned her gaze unembarrassed. “Odds and ends,” he said. + “You wouldn’t find much to interest you.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary. Everything interested me. You’re a mystery—and + I hate mysteries.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s rather hard.” + </p> + <p> + “Until they’re solved. Perhaps I shall stay until I solve you.” + </p> + <p> + “Stay longer. It wouldn’t take any time at all. There’s + no mystery to solve.” He spoke with an air of such perfect candor as + compelled her belief in his sincerity. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’ll solve it for me. Here’s Miss Van + Arsdale. Good-bye, and thank you. You’ll come and see me? Or shall I + come and see you?” + </p> + <p> + “Both,” smiled Banneker. “That’s fairest.” + </p> + <p> + The pair rode away leaving the station feeling empty and unsustained. At + least Banneker credited it with that feeling. He tried to get back to + work, but found his routine dispiriting. He walked out into the desert, + musing and aimless. + </p> + <p> + Silence fell between the two women as they rode. Once Miss Welland stopped + to adjust her traveling-bag which had shifted a little in the straps. + </p> + <p> + “Is riding cross-saddle uncomfortable for you?” asked Miss Van + Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. I often do it at home.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly her mount, a thick-set, soft-going pony shied, almost unseating + her. A gun had banged close by. Immediately there was a second report. + Miss Van Arsdale dismounted, replacing a short-barreled shot-gun in its + saddle-holster, stepped from the trail, and presently returned carrying a + brace of plump, slate-gray birds. + </p> + <p> + “Wild dove,” she said, stroking them. “You’ll find + them a welcome addition to a meager bill of fare.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be quite content with whatever you usually have.” + </p> + <p> + “Doubted,” replied the other. “I live rather a frugal + life. It saves trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “And I’m afraid I’m going to make you trouble. But you + brought it upon yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “By interfering. Exactly. How old are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens! You have the aplomb of fifty.” + </p> + <p> + “Experience,” smiled the girl, flattered. + </p> + <p> + “And the recklessness of fifteen.” + </p> + <p> + “I abide by the rules of the game. And when I find myself—well, + out of bounds, I make my own rules.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale shook her firmly poised head. “It won’t do. + The rules are the same everywhere, for honorable people.” + </p> + <p> + “Honorable!” There was a flash of resentful pride as the girl + turned in the saddle to face her companion. + </p> + <p> + “I have no intention of preaching at you or of questioning you,” + continued the calm, assured voice. “If you are looking for sanctuary”—the + fine lips smiled slightly—“though I’m sure I can’t + see why you should need it, this is the place. But there are rules of + sanctuary, also.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” surmised the girl, “you want to know why I + don’t go back into the world at once.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “As you wish.” + </p> + <p> + “I came West to be married.” + </p> + <p> + “To Delavan Eyre?” + </p> + <p> + Again the dun pony jumped, this time because a sudden involuntary + contraction of his rider’s muscles had startled him. “What do + you know of Delavan Eyre, Miss Van Arsdale?” + </p> + <p> + “I occasionally see a New York newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you know who I am, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You are the pet of the society column paragraphers; the famous + ‘Io’ Welland.” She spoke with a curious intonation. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you read the society news?” + </p> + <p> + “With a qualmish stomach. I see the names of those whom I used to + know advertising themselves in the papers as if they had a shaving-soap or + a chewing-gum to sell.” + </p> + <p> + “Part of the game,” returned the girl airily. “The + newcomers, the climbers, would give their souls to get the place in print + that we get without an effort.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t it seem to you a bit vulgar?” asked the other. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. But it’s the way the game is played nowadays.” + </p> + <p> + “With counters which you have let the parvenues establish for you. + In my day we tried to keep out of the papers.” + </p> + <p> + “Clever of you,” approved the girl. “The more you try to + keep out, the more eager the papers are to print your picture. They’re + crazy over exclusiveness,” she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Speculation, pro and con, as to who is going to marry whom, and who + is about to divorce whom, and whether Miss Welland’s engagement to + Mr. Eyre is authentic, ‘as announced exclusively in this column’—more + exclusiveness—; or whether—” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t Del Eyre that I came out here to marry.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It’s Carter Holmesley. Of course you know about him.” + </p> + <p> + “By advertisement, also; the society-column kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, you know, he couldn’t keep out of the papers. He + hates it with all his British soul. But being what he is, a prospective + duke, an international poloist, and all that sort of thing, the reporters + naturally swarm to him. Columns and columns; more pictures than a popular + <i>danseuse</i>. And all without his lifting his hand.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Une mariage de reclame</i>,” observed Miss Van Arsdale. + “Is it that that constitutes his charm for you?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale’s smile was still instinct with mockery, but there + had crept into it a quality of indulgence. + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered the girl. Her face became thoughtful and + serious. “It’s something else. He—he carried me off my + feet from the moment I met him. He was drunk, too, that first time. I don’t + believe I’ve ever seen him cold sober. But it’s a joyous kind + of intoxication; vine-leaves and Bacchus and that sort of thing ‘weave + a circle ‘round him thrice’—<i>you</i> know. It <i>is</i> + honey-dew and the milk of Paradise to him.” She laughed nervously. + “And charm! It’s in the very air about him. He can make me + follow his lead like a little curly poodle when I’m with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you engaged to Delavan Eyre when you met him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, engaged!” returned the girl fretfully. “There was + never more than a sort of understanding. A <i>mariage de convenance</i> on + both sides, if it ever came off. I <i>am</i> fond of Del, too. But he was + South, and the other came like a whirlwind, and I’m—I’m + queer about some things,” she went on half shamefacedly. “I + suppose I’m awfully susceptible to physical impressions. Are all + girls that way? Or is that gross and—and underbred?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s part of us, I expect; but we’re not all so honest + with ourselves. So you decided to throw over Mr. Eyre and marry your + Briton.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—yes. The new British Ambassador, who arrives from Japan + next week, is Carty’s uncle, and we were going to make him + stage-manage the wedding, you see. A sort of officially certified + elopement.” + </p> + <p> + “More advertisement!” said Miss Van Arsdale coldly. “Really, + Miss Welland, if marriage seems to you nothing more than an opportunity to + create a newspaper sensation I cannot congratulate you on your prospects.” + </p> + <p> + This time her tone stung. Io Welland’s eyes became sullen. But her + voice was almost caressingly amiable as she said: + </p> + <p> + “Tastes differ. It is, I believe, possible to create a sensation in + New York society without any newspaper publicity, and without at all + meaning or wishing to. At least, it was, fifteen years ago; so I’m + told.” + </p> + <p> + Camilla Van Arsdale’s face was white and lifeless and still, as she + turned it toward the girl. + </p> + <p> + “You must have been a very precocious five-year-old,” she said + steadily. + </p> + <p> + “All the Olneys are precocious. My mother was an Olney, a first + cousin of Mrs. Willis Enderby, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I remember now.” + </p> + <p> + The malicious smile on the girl’s delicate lips faded. “I wish + I, hadn’t said that,” she cried impulsively. “I hate + Cousin Mabel. I always have hated her. She’s a cat. And I think the + way she, acted in—in the—the—well, about Judge Enderby + and—“. + </p> + <p> + “Please!” Miss Van Arsdale’s tone was peremptory. + “Here is my place.” She indicated a clearing with a little + nest of a camp in it. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go back?” asked Io remorsefully. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale dismounted and, after a moment’s hesitancy, the + other followed her example. The hostess threw open the door and a + beautiful, white-ruffed collie rushed to her with barks of joy. She held + out a hand to her new guest. + </p> + <p> + “Be welcome,” she said with a certain stately gravity, “for + as long as you will stay.” + </p> + <p> + “It might be some time,” answered Io shyly. “You’re + tempting me.” + </p> + <p> + “When is your wedding?” + </p> + <p> + “Wedding! Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m not going to marry + Carter Holmesley either.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not going—” + </p> + <p> + “No. The bump on my head must have settled my brain. As soon as I + came to I saw how crazy it would be. That is why I don’t want to go + on West.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. For fear of his overbearing you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Though I don’t think he could now. I think I’m + over it. Poor old Del! He’s had a narrow escape from losing me. I + hope he never hears of it. Placid though he is, that might stir him up.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’ll go back to him?” + </p> + <p> + The girl sighed. “I suppose so. How can I tell? I’m only + twenty, and it seems to me that somebody has been trying to marry me ever + since I stopped petting my dolls. I’m tired of men, men, men! That’s + why I want to live alone and quiet for a while in the station-agent’s + shack.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don’t consider Mr. Banneker as belonging to the + tribe of men?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s an official. I could always see his uniform, at need.” + She fell into thought. “It’s a curious thing,” she + mused. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “This queer young cub of a station-agent of yours is strangely like + Carter Holmesley, not as much in looks as in—well—atmosphere. + Only, he’s ever so much better-looking.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you have some tea? You must be tired,” said Miss + Van Arsdale politely. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + Somewhere within the soul of civilized woman burns a craving for that + higher power of sensation which we dub sensationalism. Girls of Io Welland’s + upbringing live in an atmosphere which fosters it. To outshine their + rivals in the startling things which they do, always within accepted + limits, is an important and exciting phase of existence. Io had run away + to marry the future Duke of Carfax, partly through the charm which a + reckless, headlong, and romantic personality imposed upon her, but largely + for the excitement of a reckless, headlong, and romantic escapade. The + tragic interposition of the wreck seemed to her present consciousness, + cooled and sobered by the spacious peace of the desert, to have been + providential. + </p> + <p> + Despite her disclaimer made to Banneker she felt, deep within the placid + acceptances of subconsciousness, that the destruction of a train was not + too much for a considerate Providence to undertake on behalf of her petted + and important self. She clearly realized that she had had a narrow escape + from Holmesley; that his attraction for her was transient and + unsubstantial, a surface magnetism without real value or promise. + </p> + <p> + In her revulsion of feeling she thought affectionately of Delavan Eyre. + There lay the safe basis of habitude, common interests, settled liking. + True, he bored her at times with his unimpeachable good-nature, his easy + self-assurance that everything was and always would be “all right,” + and nothing “worth bothering over.” + </p> + <p> + If he knew of her escapade, that would at least shake him out of his soft + and well-lined rut. Indeed, Io was frank enough with herself to admit that + a perverse desire to explode a bomb under her imperturbable and + too-assured suitor had been an element in her projected elopement. Never + would that bomb explode. It would not even fizzle enough to alarm Eyre or + her family. For not a soul knew of the frustrated scheme, except Holmesley + and the reliable friend in Paradiso whom she was to visit; not her father, + Sims Welland, traveling in Europe on business, nor her aunt, Mrs. Thatcher + Forbes, in whose charge she had been left. Ostensibly she had been going + to visit the Westerleys, that was all: Mrs. Forbes’s misgivings as + to a twenty-year-old girl crossing the continent alone had been unavailing + against Io’s calm willfulness. + </p> + <p> + Well, she would go back and marry Del Eyre, and be comfortable ever after. + After all, liking and comprehension were a sounder foundation for + matrimony than the perishable glamour of an attraction like Holmesley’s. + Any sensible person would know that. She wished that she had some older + and more experienced woman to talk it out with. Miss Van Arsdale, if only + she knew her a little better.... + </p> + <p> + Camilla Van Arsdale, even on so casual an acquaintance, would have told + Io, reckoning with the slumbering fire in her eyes, and the sensitive and + passionate turn of the lips, but still more with the subtle and + significant emanation of a femininity as yet unawakened to itself, that + for her to marry on the pallid expectancies of mere liking would be to + invite disaster and challenge ruin. + </p> + <p> + Meantime Io wanted to rest and think. + </p> + <p> + Time enough for that was to be hers, it appeared. Her first night as a + guest had been spent in a semi-enclosed porch, to which every breeze + wafted the spicy and restful balm of the wet pines. Io’s hot brain + cooled itself in that peace. Quite with a feeling of welcome she accepted + the windy downpour which came with the morning to keep her indoors, as if + it were a friendly and opportune jailer. Reaction from the mental strain + and the physical shock had set in. She wanted only, as she expressed it to + her hostess, to “laze” for a while. + </p> + <p> + “Then this is the ideal spot for you,” Miss Van Arsdale + answered her. “I’m going to ride over to town.” + </p> + <p> + “In this gale?” asked the surprised girl. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m weather-proof. Tell Pedro not to wait luncheon for + me. And keep an eye on him if you want anything fit to eat. He’s the + worst cook west of the plains. You’ll find books, and the piano to + amuse you when you get up.” + </p> + <p> + She rode away, straight and supple in the saddle, and Io went back to + sleep again. Halfway to her destination, Miss Van Arsdale’s + woods-trained ear caught the sound of another horse’s hooves, taking + a short cut across a bend in the trail. To her halloo, Banneker’s + clear voice responded. She waited and presently he rode up to her. + </p> + <p> + “Come back with me,” she invited after acknowledging his + greeting. + </p> + <p> + “I was going over to see Miss Welland.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait until to-morrow. She is resting.” + </p> + <p> + A shade of disappointment crossed his face. “All right,” he + agreed. “I wanted to tell her that her messages got off all right.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell her when I go back.” + </p> + <p> + “That’ll be just as well,” he answered reluctantly. + “How is she feeling?” + </p> + <p> + “Exhausted. She’s been under severe strain.” + </p> + <p> + “Oughtn’t she to have a doctor? I could ride—” + </p> + <p> + “She won’t listen to it. And I think her head is all right + now. But she ought to have complete rest for several days.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m likely to be busy enough,” he said simply. + “The schedule is all shot to pieces, and, unless this rain lets up, + we’ll have more track out. What do you think of it?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale looked up through the thrashing pines to the rush of the + gray-black clouds. “I think we’re in for a siege of it,” + was her pronouncement. + </p> + <p> + They rode along single file in the narrow trail until they emerged into + the open. Then Banneker’s horse moved forward, neck and neck with + the other. Miss Van Arsdale reined down her uneasy roan. + </p> + <p> + “Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever seen anything like her before?” + </p> + <p> + “Only on the stage.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled. “What do you think of her?” + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know how to express it,” he answered frankly, though + hesitantly. “She makes me think of all the poetry I’ve ever + read.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s dangerous. Ban, have you any idea what kind of a girl + she is?” + </p> + <p> + “What kind?” he repeated. He looked startled. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you haven’t. How should you? I’m going to + tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know her, Miss Camilla?” + </p> + <p> + “As well as if she were my own sister. That is, I know her type. It’s + common enough.” + </p> + <p> + “It can’t be,” he protested eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! The type is. She is an exquisite specimen of it; that’s + all. Listen, Ban. Io Welland is the petted and clever and willful daughter + of a rich man; a very rich man he would be reckoned out here. She lives in + a world as remote from this as the moon.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. I realize that.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s well that you do. And she’s as casual a visitant + here as if she had floated down on one moonbeam and would float back on + the next.” + </p> + <p> + “She’ll have to, to get out of here if this rain keeps up,” + observed the station-agent grimly. + </p> + <p> + “I wish she would,” returned Miss Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “Is she in your way?” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t mind that if I could keep her out of yours,” + she answered bluntly. + </p> + <p> + Banneker turned a placid and smiling face to her. “You think I’m + a fool, don’t you, Miss Camilla?” + </p> + <p> + “I think that Io Welland, without ill-intent at all, but with a + period of idleness on her hands, is a dangerous creature to have around. + She’s too lovely and, I think, too restless a spirit.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s lovely, all right,” assented Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Well; I’ve warned you, Ban,” returned his friend in + slightly dispirited tones. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want me to do? Keep away from your place? I’ll do + whatever you say. But it’s all nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say it is,” sighed Miss Van Arsdale. “Forget + that I’ve said it, Ban. Meddling is a thankless business.” + </p> + <p> + “You could never meddle as far as I’m concerned,” said + Banneker warmly. “I’m a little worried,” he added + thoughtfully, “about not reporting her as found to the company. What + do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Too official a question for me. You’ll have to settle that + for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “How long does she intend to stay?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. But a girl of her breeding and habits would + hardly settle herself on a stranger for very long unless a point were made + of urging her.” + </p> + <p> + “And you won’t do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I certainly shall not!” + </p> + <p> + “No; I suppose not. You’ve been awfully good to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Hospitality to the shipwrecked,” smiled Miss Van Arsdale as + she crossed the track toward the village. + </p> + <p> + Late afternoon, darkening into wilder winds and harsher rain, brought the + hostess back to her lodge dripping and weary. On a bearskin before the + smouldering fire lay the girl, her fingers intertwined behind her head, + her eyes half closed and dreamy. Without directly responding to the other’s + salutation she said: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Arsdale, will you be very good to me?” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m tired,” said Io. “So tired!” + </p> + <p> + “Stay, of course,” responded the hostess, answering the + implication heartily, “as long as you will.” + </p> + <p> + “Only two or three days, until I recover the will to do something. + You’re awfully kind.” Io looked very young and childlike, with + her languid, mobile face irradiated by the half-light of the fire. “Perhaps + you’ll play for me sometime.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Now, if you like. As soon as the chill gets out of my + hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. And sing?” suggested the girl diffidently. + </p> + <p> + A fierce contraction of pain marred the serenity of the older woman’s + face. “No,” she said harshly. “I sing for no one.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry,” murmured the girl. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing all day?” asked Miss Van Arsdale, + holding out her hands toward the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Resting. Thinking. Scaring myself with bogy-thoughts of what I’ve + escaped.” Io smiled and sighed. “I hadn’t known how worn + out I was until I woke up this morning. I don’t think I ever before + realized the meaning of refuge.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll recover from the need of it soon enough,” + promised the other. She crossed to the piano. “What kind of music do + you want? No; don’t tell me. I should be able to guess.” Half + turning on the bench she gazed speculatively at the lax figure on the rug. + “Chopin, I think. I’ve guessed right? Well, I don’t + think I shall play you Chopin to-day. You don’t need that kind of—of—well, + excitation.” + </p> + <p> + Musing for a moment over a soft mingling of chords she began with a little + ripple of melody, MacDowell’s lovely, hurrying, buoyant “Improvisation,” + with its aeolian vibrancies, its light, bright surges of sound, sinking at + the last into cradled restfulness. Without pause or transition she passed + on to Grieg; the wistful, remote appeal of the strangely misnamed “Erotique,” + plaintive, solemn, and in the fulfillment almost hymnal: the brusque + pursuing minors of the wedding music, and the diamond-shower of notes of + the sun-path song, bleak, piercing, Northern sunlight imprisoned in + melody. Then, the majestic swing of Åse’s death-chant, glorious and + mystical. + </p> + <p> + “Are you asleep?” asked the player, speaking through the + chords. + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Io’s tremulous voice. “I’m + being very unhappy. I love it!” + </p> + <p> + Bang! It was a musical detonation, followed by a volley of chords and then + a wild, swirling waltz; and Miss Van Arsdale jumped up and stood over her + guest. “There!” she said. “That’s better than + letting you pamper yourself with the indulgence of unhappiness.” + </p> + <p> + “But I want to be unhappy,” pouted Io. “I want to be + pampered.” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally. You always will be, I expect, as long as there are men + in the world to do your bidding. However, I must see to supper.” + </p> + <p> + So for two days Io Welland lolled and lazed and listened to Miss Van + Arsdale’s music, or read, or took little walks between showers. No + further mention was made by her hostess of the circumstances of the visit. + She was a reticent woman; almost saturnine, Io decided, though her perfect + and effortless courtesy preserved her from being antipathetic to any one + beneath her own roof. How much her silence as to the unusual situation was + inspired by consideration for her guest, how much due to natural reserve, + Io could not estimate. + </p> + <p> + A little less reticence would have been grateful to her as the hours spun + out and she felt her own spirit expand slowly in the calm. It was she who + introduced the subject of Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Our quaint young station-agent seems to have abandoned his + responsibilities so far as I’m concerned,” she observed. + </p> + <p> + “Because he hasn’t come to see you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He said he would.” + </p> + <p> + “I told him not to.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Io, after thinking it over. “Is he a + little—just a wee, little bit queer in his head?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s one of the sanest persons I’ve ever known. And I + want him to stay so.” + </p> + <p> + “I see again,” stated the girl. + </p> + <p> + “So you thought him a bit unbalanced? That <i>is</i> amusing.” + That the hostess meant the adjective in good faith was proved by her quiet + laughter. + </p> + <p> + Io regarded her speculatively and with suspicion. “He asked the same + about me, I suppose.” Such was her interpretation of the laugh. + </p> + <p> + “But he gave you credit for being only temporarily deranged.” + </p> + <p> + “Either he or I ought to be up for examination by a medical board,” + stated the girl poutingly. “One of us must be crazy. The night that + I stole his molasses pie—it was pretty awful pie, but I was starved—I + stumbled over something in the darkness and fell into it with an awful + clatter. What do you suppose it was?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I could guess,” smiled the other. + </p> + <p> + “Not unless you knew. Personally I couldn’t believe it. It + felt like a boat, and it rocked like a boat, and there were the seats and + the oars. I could feel them. A steel boat! Miss Van Arsdale, it isn’t + reasonable.” + </p> + <p> + “Why isn’t it reasonable?’ + </p> + <p> + “I looked on the map in his room and there isn’t so much as a + mud-puddle within miles and miles and miles. Is there?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know of.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what does he want of a steel boat?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask him.” + </p> + <p> + “It might stir him up. They get violent if you question their pet + lunacies, don’t they?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s quite simple. Ban is just an incurable romanticist. He + loves the water. And his repository of romance is the catalogue of Sears, + Roebuck and Co. When the new issue came, with an entrancing illustration + of a fully equipped steel boat, he simply couldn’t stand it. He had + to have one, to remind him that some day he would be going back to the + coast lagoons.... Does that sound to you like a fool?” + </p> + <p> + “No; it sounds delicious,” declared the girl with a ripple of + mirth. “What a wonderful person! I’m going over to see him + to-morrow. May I?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear; I have no control over your actions.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you made any other plans for me to-morrow morning?” + inquired Miss Welland in a prim and social tone, belied by the dancing + light in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve told you that he was romantic,” warned the other. + </p> + <p> + “What higher recommendation could there be? I shall sit in the boat + with him and talk nautical language. Has he a yachting cap? Oh, do tell me + that he has a yachting cap!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale, smiling, shook her head, but her eyes were troubled. + There was compunction in Io’s next remark. + </p> + <p> + “I’m really going over to see about accommodations. Sooner or + later I must face the music—meaning Carty. I’m fit enough now, + thanks to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t an Eastern trip be safer?” suggested her + hostess. + </p> + <p> + “An Eastern trip would be easier. But I’ve made my break, and + it’s in the rules, as I understand them, that I’ve got to see + it through. If he can get me now”—she gave a little shrug—“but + he can’t. I’ve come to my senses.” + </p> + <p> + Sunlight pale, dubious, filtering through the shaken cloud veils, ushered + in the morning. Meager of promise though it was, Io’s spirits + brightened. Declining the offer of a horse in favor of a pocket compass, + she set out afoot, not taking the trail, but forging straight through the + heavy forest for the line of desert. Around her, brisk and busy flocks of + piñon jays darted and twittered confidentially. The warm spice of the + pines was sweet in her nostrils. Little stirrings and rustlings just + beyond the reach of vision delightfully and provocatively suggested the + interest which she was inspiring by her invasion among the lesser denizens + of the place. The sweetness and intimacy of an unknown life surrounded + her. She sang happily as she strode, lithe and strong and throbbing with + unfulfilled energies and potencies, through the springtide of the woods. + </p> + <p> + But when she emerged upon the desert, she fell silent. A spaciousness as + of endless vistas enthralled and, a little, awed her. On all sides were + ranged the disordered ranks of the cacti, stricken into immobility in the + very act of reconstituting their columns, so that they gave the effect of + a discord checked on the verge of its resolution into form and harmony, + yet with a weird and distorted beauty of its own. From a little distance, + there came a murmur of love-words. Io moved softly forward, peering + curiously, and from the arc of a wide curving ocatilla two wild doves + sprang, leaving the branch all aquiver. Bolder than his companions of the + air, a cactus owl, perched upon the highest column of a great green + candelabrum, viewed her with a steady detachment, “sleepless, with + cold, commemorative eyes.” The girl gave back look for look, into + the big, hard, unwavering circles. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a funny little bird,” said she. “Say + something!” + </p> + <p> + Like his congener of the hortatory poem, the owl held his peace. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’re a stuffed little bird,” said Io, “and + this not a real desert at all, but a National Park or something, full of + educational specimens.” + </p> + <p> + She walked past the occupant of the cactus, and his head, turning, + followed her with the slow, methodical movement of a toy mechanism. + </p> + <p> + “You give me a crick in my neck,” protested the intruder + plaintively. “Now, I’ll step over behind you and you’ll + <i>have</i> to move or stop watching me.” + </p> + <p> + She walked behind the watcher. The eyes continued to hold her in direct + range. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Io, “I know where the idea for that horrid + advertisement that always follows you with its finger came from. However, + I’ll fix you.” + </p> + <p> + She fetched a deliberate circle. The bird’s eyes followed her + without cessation. Yet his feet and body remained motionless. Only the + head had turned. That had made a complete revolution. + </p> + <p> + “This is a very queer desert,” gasped Io. “It’s + bewitched. Or am I? Now, I’m going to walk once more around you, + little owl, or mighty magician, whichever you are. And after I’ve + completely turned your head, you’ll fall at my feet. Or else...” + </p> + <p> + Again she walked around the feathered center of the circle. The head + followed her, turning with a steady and uninterrupted motion, on its + pivot. Io took a silver dime from her purse. + </p> + <p> + “Heaven save us from the powers of evil!” she said + appreciatively. “Aroint thee, witch!” + </p> + <p> + She threw the coin at the cactus. + </p> + <p> + “Chrr-rr-rrum!” burbled the owl, and flew away. + </p> + <p> + “I’m dizzy,” said Io. “I wonder if the owl is an + omen and whether the other inhabitants of this desert are like him; + however much you turn their heads, they won’t fall for you. Charms + and counter-charms!... Be a good child, Io,” she admonished herself. + “Haven’t you got yourself into enough trouble with your + deviltries? I can’t help it,” she defended herself. “When + I see a new and interesting specimen, I’ve just <i>got</i> to + investigate its nature and habits. It’s an inherited scientific + spirit, I suppose. And he is new, and awfully interesting—even if he + is only a station-agent.” Wherefrom it will be perceived that her + thoughts had veered from the cactus owl, to another perplexing local + phenomenon. + </p> + <p> + The glaring line of the railroad right-of-way rose before her feet, a + discordant note of rigidity and order in the confused prodigality of + desert growth. Io turned away from it, but followed its line until she + reached the station. No sign of life greeted her. The door was locked, and + the portable house unresponsive to her knocking. Presently, however, she + heard the steady click of the telegraph instrument and, looking through + the half-open office window, saw Banneker absorbed in his work. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning,” she called. + </p> + <p> + Without looking up he gave back her greeting in an absent echo. + </p> + <p> + “As you didn’t come to see me, I’ve come to see you,” + was her next attempt. + </p> + <p> + Did he nod? Or had he made no motion at all? + </p> + <p> + “I’ve come to ask important questions about trains,” she + pursued, a little aggrieved by his indifference to her presence. + </p> + <p> + No reply from the intent worker. + </p> + <p> + “And ‘tell sad stories of the death of kings,’” + she quoted with a fairy chuckle. She thought that she saw a small + contortion pass over his features, only to be banished at once. He had + retired within the walls of that impassive and inscrutable reserve which + minor railroad officials can at will erect between themselves and the lay + public. Only the broken rhythms of the telegraph ticker relieved the + silence and furnished the justification. + </p> + <p> + A little piqued but more amused, for she was far too confident of herself + to feel snubbed, the girl waited smilingly. Presently she said in silken + tones: + </p> + <p> + “When you’re quite through and can devote a little attention + to insignificant me, I shall perhaps be sitting on the sunny corner of the + platform, or perhaps I shall be gone forever.” + </p> + <p> + But she was not gone when, ten minutes later, Banneker came out. He looked + tired. + </p> + <p> + “You know, you weren’t very polite to me,” she remarked, + glancing at him slantwise as he stood before her. + </p> + <p> + If she expected apologies, she was disappointed, and perhaps thought none + the less of him for his dereliction. + </p> + <p> + “There’s trouble all up and down the line,” he said. + “Nothing like a schedule left west of Allbright. Two passenger + trains have come through, though. Would you like to see a paper? It’s + in my office.” + </p> + <p> + “Goodness, no! Why should I want a newspaper here? I haven’t + time for it. I want to see the world”—she swept a little, + indicating hand about her; “all that I can take in in a day.” + </p> + <p> + “A day?” he echoed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’m going to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s as may be. Ten to one there’s no space to be + had.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely you can get something for me. A section will do if you can’t + get a stateroom.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled. “The president of the road might get a stateroom. I doubt + if anybody else could even land an upper. Of course I’ll do my best. + But it’s a question when there’ll be another train through.” + </p> + <p> + “What ails your road?” she demanded indignantly. “Is it + just stuck together with glue?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve never seen this desert country when it springs a leak. + It can develop a few hundred Niagaras at the shortest notice of any place + I know.” + </p> + <p> + “But it isn’t leaking now,” she objected. + </p> + <p> + He turned his face to the softly diffused sunlight. “To be + continued. The storm isn’t over yet, according to the way I feel + about it. Weather reports say so, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Then take me for a walk!” she cried. “I’m tired + of rain and I want to go over and lean against that lovely white mountain.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s only sixty miles away,” he answered. “Perhaps + you’d better take some grub along or you might get hungry.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you coming with me?” + </p> + <p> + “This is my busy morning. If it were afternoon, now—” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Since you are so urgent, I <i>will</i> stay to luncheon. + I’ll even get it up myself if you’ll let me into the shack.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a go!” said Banneker heartily. “What about + your horse?” + </p> + <p> + “I walked over.” + </p> + <p> + “No; did you?” He turned thoughtful, and his next observation + had a slightly troubled ring. “Have you got a gun?” + </p> + <p> + “A gun? Oh, you mean a pistol. No; I haven’t. Why should I?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “This is no time to be out in the open without a + gun. They had a dance at the Sick Coyote in Manzanita last night, and + there’ll be some tough specimens drifting along homeward all day.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you carry a gun?” + </p> + <p> + “I would if I were going about with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you can loan me yours to go home with this afternoon,” + she said lightly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ll take you back. Just now I’ve got some odds and + ends that will take a couple of hours to clear up. You’ll find + plenty to read in the shack, such as it is.” + </p> + <p> + Thus casually dismissed, Io murmured a “Thank you” which was + not as meek as it sounded, and withdrew to rummage among the canned + edibles drawn from the inexhaustible stock of Sears-Roebuck. Having laid + out a selection, housewifely, and looked to the oil stove derived from the + same source, she turned with some curiosity to the mental pabulum with + which this strange young hermit had provided himself. Would this, too, + bear the mail-order imprint and testify to mail-order standards? At first + glance the answer appeared to be affirmative. The top shelf of the + home-made case sagged with the ineffable slusheries of that most popular + and pious of novelists, Harvey Wheelwright. Near by, “How to Behave + on All Occasions” held forth its unimpeachable precepts, while a + little beyond, “Botany Made Easy” and “The Perfect + Letter Writer” proffered further aid to the aspiring mind. + Improvement, stark, blatant Improvement, advertised itself from that + culturous and reeking compartment. But just below—Io was tempted to + rub her eyes—stood Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy”; + a Browning, complete; that inimitably jocund fictional prank, Frederic’s + “March Hares,” together with the same author’s fine and + profoundly just “Damnation of Theron Ware”; Taylor’s + translation of Faust; “The [broken-backed] Egoist”; “Lavengro” + (Io touched its magic pages with tender fingers), and a fat, faded, + reddish volume so worn and obscured that she at once took it down and made + explorative entry. She was still deep in it when the owner arrived. + </p> + <p> + “Have you found enough to keep you amused?” + </p> + <p> + She looked up from the pages and seemed to take him all in anew before + answering. “Hardly the word. Bewildered would be nearer the feeling.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a queerish library, I suppose,” he said + apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “If I believed in dual personality—” she began; but + broke off to hold up the bulky veteran. “Where did you get ‘The + Undying Voices’?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s a windfall. What a bully title for a collection of + the great poetries, isn’t it!” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, one caressing hand on the open book, the other propping her + chin as she kept the clear wonder of her eyes upon him. + </p> + <p> + “It makes you think of singers making harmony together in a great + open space. I’d like to know the man who made the selections,” + he concluded. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of a windfall?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “A real one. Pullman travelers sometimes prop their windows open + with books. You can see the window-mark on the cover of this one. I found + it two miles out, beside the right-of-way. There was no name in it, so I + kept it. It’s the book I read most except one.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the one?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed, holding up the still more corpulent Sears-Roebuck catalogue. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said she gravely. “That accounts, I suppose, for + the top shelf.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mostly.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you like them? The Conscientious Improvers, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I think they’re bunk.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why did you get them?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I suppose I was looking for something,” he returned; and + though his tone was careless, she noticed for the first time a tinge of + self-consciousness. + </p> + <p> + “Did you find it there?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It isn’t there.” + </p> + <p> + “Here?” She laid both hands on the “windfall.” + </p> + <p> + His face lighted subtly. + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> there, isn’t it! If one has the sense to get it + out.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” mused the girl. And again, “I wonder.” + She rose, and taking out “March Hares” held it up. “I + could hardly believe this when I saw it. Did it also drop out of a car + window?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I never heard of that until I wrote for it. I wrote to a Boston + bookstore that I’d heard about and told ’em I wanted two books + to cheer up a fool with the blues, and another to take him into a strange + world—and keep the change out of five dollars. They sent me ‘The + Bab Ballads’ and this, and ‘Lavengro.’” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how I’d like to see that letter! If the bookstore has an + ounce of real bookitude about it, they’ve got it preserved in + lavender! And what do you think of ‘March Hares’?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever read any of the works of Harvey Wheelwright?” he + questioned in turn. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” thought Io, “he is going to compare Frederic to + Wheelwright, and I shall abandon him to his fate forever. So here’s + his chance ... I have,” she replied aloud. + </p> + <p> + “It’s funny,” ruminated Banneker. “Mr. Wheelwright + writes about the kind of things that might happen any day, and probably do + happen, and yet you don’t believe a word of it. ‘March Hares’—well, + it just couldn’t happen; but what do you care while you’re in + it! It seems realer than any of the dull things outside it. That’s + the literary part of it, I suppose, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the magic of it,” returned Io, with a little, + half-suppressed crow of delight. “Are you magic, too, Mr. Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “Me? I’m hungry,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive the cook!” she cried. “But just one thing more. + Will you lend me the poetry book?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s all marked up,” he objected, flushing. + </p> + <p> + “Are you afraid that I’ll surprise your inmost secrets?” + she taunted. “They’d be safe. I can be close-mouthed, even + though I’ve been chattering like a sparrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Take it, of course,” he said. “I suppose I’ve + marked all the wrong things.” + </p> + <p> + “So far,” she laughed, “you’re batting one hundred + per cent as a literary critic.” She poured coffee into a tin cup and + handed it to him. “What do you think of my coffee?” + </p> + <p> + He tasted it consideringly; then gave a serious verdict. “Pretty + bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Really! I suppose it isn’t according to the mail-order book + recipe.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s muddy and it’s weak.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you always so frank in your expression of views?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you asked me.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you answer as plainly whatever I asked you?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. I’d have too much respect for you not to.” + </p> + <p> + She opened wide eyes at this. Then provocatively: “What do you think + of me, Mr. Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t answer that.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” she teased. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know you well enough to give an opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “You know me as well as you ever will.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, a snap judgment, for what it’s worth.... What are you + doing there?” + </p> + <p> + “Making more coffee.” + </p> + <p> + Io stamped her foot. “You’re the most enraging man I ever met.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s quite unintentional,” he replied patiently, but + with no hint of compunction. “You may drink yours and I’ll + drink mine.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re only making it worse!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well; then I’ll drink yours if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “And say it’s good.” + </p> + <p> + “But what’s the use?” + </p> + <p> + “And say it’s good,” insisted Io. + </p> + <p> + “It’s marvelous,” agreed her unsmiling host. + </p> + <p> + Far from being satisfied with words and tone, which were correctness + itself, Io was insensately exasperated. + </p> + <p> + “You’re treating me like a child,” she charged. + </p> + <p> + “How do you want me to treat you?” + </p> + <p> + “As a woman,” she flashed, and was suddenly appalled to feel + the blood flush incredibly to her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + If he noted the phenomenon, he gave no sign, simply assenting with his + customary equanimity. During the luncheon she chattered vaguely. She was + in two minds about calling off the projected walk. As he set aside his + half-emptied cup of coffee—not even tactful enough to finish it out + of compliment to her brew—Banneker said: + </p> + <p> + “Up beyond the turn yonder the right-of-way crosses an arroyo. I + want to take a look at it. We can cut through the woods to get there. Are + you good for three miles?” + </p> + <p> + “For a hundred!” cried Io. + </p> + <p> + The wine of life was potent in her veins. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + Before the walk was over, Io knew Banneker as she had never before, in her + surrounded and restricted life, known any man; the character and evolution + and essence of him. Yet with all his frankness, the rare, simple, and + generous outgiving of a naturally rather silent nature yielding itself to + an unrecognized but overmastering influence, he retained the charm of + inner mystery. Her sudden understanding of him still did not enable her to + place him in any category of life as she knew it to be arranged. + </p> + <p> + The revelation had come about through her description of her encounter + with the queer and attentive bird of the desert. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Banneker. “You’ve been interviewing a + cactus owl.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he unwind his neck carefully and privately after I had gone?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” returned Banneker gravely. “He just jumped in the + air and his body spun around until it got back to its original relation.” + </p> + <p> + “How truly fascinating! Have you seen him do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not actually seen. But often in the evenings I’ve heard them + buzzing as they unspin the day’s wind-up. During the day, you see, + they make as many as ten or fifteen revolutions until their eyes bung out. + Reversing makes them very dizzy, and if you are around when they’re + doing it, you can often pick them up off the sand.” + </p> + <p> + “And doesn’t it ever make <i>you</i> dizzy? All this local + lore, I mean, that you carry around in your head?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t much of a strain to a practiced intellect,” he + deprecated. “If you’re interested in natural history, there’s + the Side-hill Wampus—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I know. I’ve been West before, thank you! Pardon my + curiosity, but are all you creatures of the desert queer and inexplicable?” + </p> + <p> + “Not me,” he returned promptly if ungrammatically, “if + you’re looking in my direction.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll admit that I find you as interesting as the owl—almost. + And quite as hard to understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody ever called me queer; not to my face.” + </p> + <p> + “But you are, you know. You oughtn’t to be here at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Where ought I to be?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I answer that riddle without knowing where you have been? + Are you Ulysses—” + </p> + <p> + “‘Knowing cities and the hearts of men,’” he + answered, quick to catch the reference. “No; not the cities, + certainly, and very little of the men.” + </p> + <p> + “There, you see!” she exclaimed plaintively. “You’re + up on a classical reference like a college man. No; not like the college + men I know, either. They are too immersed in their football and rowing and + too afraid to be thought high-brow, to confess to knowing anything about + Ulysses. What was your college?” + </p> + <p> + “This,” he said, sweeping a hand around the curve of the + horizon. + </p> + <p> + “And in any one else,” she retorted, “that would be + priggish as well as disingenuous.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I know what you mean. Out here, when a man doesn’t + explain himself, they think it’s for some good reason of his own, or + bad reason, more likely. In either case, they don’t ask questions.” + </p> + <p> + “I really beg your pardon, Mr. Banneker!” + </p> + <p> + “No; that isn’t what I meant at all. If you’re + interested, I’d like to have you know about me. It isn’t much, + though.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll think me prying,” she objected. + </p> + <p> + “I think you a sort of friend of a day, who is going away very soon + leaving pleasant memories,” he answered, smiling. “A butterfly + visit. I’m not much given to talking, but if you’d like it—” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I should like it.” + </p> + <p> + So he sketched for her his history. His mother he barely remembered; + “dark, and quite beautiful, I believe, though that might be only a + child’s vision; my father rarely spoke of her, but I think all the + emotional side of his life was buried with her.” The father, an + American of Danish ancestry, had been ousted from the chair of Sociology + in old, conservative Havenden College, as the logical result of his + writings which, because they shrewdly and clearly pointed out certain + ulcerous spots in the economic and social system, were denounced as + “radical” by a Board of Trustees honestly devoted to Business + Ideals. Having a small income of his own, the ex-Professor decided upon a + life of investigatory vagrancy, with special reference to studies, at + first hand, of the voluntarily unemployed. Not knowing what else to do + with the only child of his marriage, he took the boy along. Contemptuous + of, rather than embittered against, an academic system which had dispensed + with his services because it was afraid of the light—“When you + cast a light, they see only the resultant shadows,” was one of his + sayings which had remained with Banneker—he had resolved to educate + the child himself. + </p> + <p> + Their life was spent frugally in cities where they haunted libraries, or, + sumptuously, upon the open road where a modest supply of ready cash goes a + long way. Young Banneker’s education, after the routine foundation, + was curiously heterodox, but he came through it with his intellectual + digestion unimpaired and his mental appetite avid. By example he had the + competent self-respect and unmistakable bearing of a gentleman, and by + careful precept the speech of a liberally educated man. When he was + seventeen, his father died of a twenty-four hours’ pneumonia, + leaving the son not so much stricken as bewildered, for their relations + had been comradely rather than affectionate. For a time it was a question + whether the youngster, drifting from casual job to casual job, would not + degenerate into a veritable hobo, for he had drunk deep of the charm of + the untrammeled and limitless road. Want touched him, but lightly; for he + was naturally frugal and hardy. He got a railroad job by good luck, and it + was not until he had worked himself into a permanency that his father’s + lawyers found and notified him of the possession of a small income, one + hundred dollars per annum of which, they informed him, was to be expended + by them upon such books as they thought suitable to his circumstances, + upon information provided by the deceased, the remainder to be at his + disposal. + </p> + <p> + Though quite unauthorized to proffer advice, as they honorably stated, + they opined that the heir’s wisest course would be to prepare + himself at once for college, the income being sufficient to take him + through, with care—and they were, his Very Truly, Cobb & Morse. + </p> + <p> + Banneker had not the smallest idea of cooping up his mind in a college. As + to future occupation, his father had said nothing that was definite. His + thesis was that observation and thought concerning men and their + activities, pointed and directed by intimate touch with what others had + observed and set down—that is, through books—was the gist of + life. Any job which gave opportunity or leisure for this was good enough. + Livelihood was but a garment, at most; life was the body beneath. + Furthermore, young Banneker would find, so his senior had assured him, + that he possessed an open sesame to the minds of the really intelligent + wheresoever he might encounter them, in the form of a jewel which he must + keep sedulously untarnished and bright. What was that? asked the boy. His + speech and bearing of a cultivated man. + </p> + <p> + Young Banneker found that it was almost miraculously true. Wherever he + went, he established contacts with people who interested him and whom he + interested: here a brilliant, doubting, perturbed clergyman, slowly dying + of tuberculosis in the desert; there a famous geologist from Washington + who, after a night of amazing talk with the young prodigy while awaiting a + train, took him along on a mountain exploration; again an artist and his + wife who were painting the arid and colorful glories of the waste places. + From these and others he got much; but not friendship or permanent + associations. He did not want them. He was essentially, though + unconsciously, a lone spirit; so his listener gathered. Advancement could + have been his in the line of work which had by chance adopted him; but he + preferred small, out-of-the-way stations, where he could be with his books + and have room to breathe. So here he was at Manzanita. That was all there + was to it. Nothing very mysterious or remarkable about it, was there? + </p> + <p> + Io smiled in return. “What is your name?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Errol. But every one calls me Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you ever told this to any one before?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know really,” hesitated the girl, “except + that it seems almost inhuman to keep one’s self so shut off.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s nobody else’s business.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you’ve told it to me. That’s very charming of you.” + </p> + <p> + “You said you’d be interested.” + </p> + <p> + “So I am. It’s an extraordinary life, though you don’t + seem to think so.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t want to be extraordinary.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you do,” she refuted promptly. “To be + ordinary is—is—well, it’s like being a dust-colored + beetle.” She looked at him queerly. “Doesn’t Miss Van + Arsdale know all this?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see how she could. I’ve never told her.” + </p> + <p> + “And she’s never asked you anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word. I don’t quite see Miss Camilla asking any one + questions about themselves. Did she ask you?” + </p> + <p> + The girl’s color deepened almost imperceptibly. “You’re + right,” she said. “There’s a standard of breeding that + we up-to-date people don’t attain. But I’m at least + intelligent enough to recognize it. You reckon her as a friend, don’t + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes; I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose you’d ever come to reckon me as one?” + she asked, half bantering, half wistful. + </p> + <p> + “There won’t be time. You’re running away.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I might write you. I think I’d like to.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you?” he murmured. “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be greatly flattered,” she reproved him. “Instead + you shoot a ‘why’ at me. Well; because you’ve got + something I haven’t got. And when I find anything new like that, I + always try to get some of it for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what it could be, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Call it your philosophy of life. Your contentment. Or is it only + detachment? That can’t last, you know.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to her, vaguely disturbed as by a threat. “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re too—well, distinctive. You’re too rare and + beautiful a specimen. You’ll be grabbed.” She laughed softly. + </p> + <p> + “Who’ll grab me?” + </p> + <p> + “How should I know? Life, probably. Grab you and dry you up and put + you in a case like the rest of us.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that’s why I like to stay out here. At least I can be + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that your fondest ambition?” + </p> + <p> + However much he may have been startled by the swift stab, he gave no sign + of hurt in his reply. + </p> + <p> + “Call it the line of least resistance. In any case, I shouldn’t + like to be grabbed and dried up.” + </p> + <p> + “Most of us are grabbed and catalogued from our birth, and + eventually dried up and set in our proper places.” + </p> + <p> + “Not you, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “Because you haven’t seen me in my shell. That’s where I + mostly live. I’ve broken out for a time.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you like it outside, Butterfly?” he queried with + a hint of playful caress in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “I like that name for myself,” she returned quickly. “Though + a butterfly couldn’t return to its chrysalis, no matter how much it + wanted to, could it? But you may call me that, since we’re to be + friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you do like it outside your shell.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s exhilarating. But I suppose I should find it too rough + for my highly sensitized skin in the long run.... Are you going to write + to me if I write to you?” + </p> + <p> + “What about? That Number Six came in making bad steam, and that a + west-bound freight, running extra, was held up on the siding at Marchand + for half a day?” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all you have to write about?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker bethought himself of the very private dossier in his office. + “No; it isn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “You <i>could</i> write in a way all your own. Have you ever written + anything for publication?” + </p> + <p> + “No. That is—well—I don’t really know.” He + told her about Gardner and the description of the wreck. + </p> + <p> + “How did you happen to do that?” she asked curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I write a lot of things and put them away and forget them.” + </p> + <p> + “Show me,” she wheedled. “I’d love to see them.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “They wouldn’t interest you.” The + words were those of an excuse. But in the tone was finality. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you’re very responsive,” she + complained. “I’m awfully interested in you and your affairs, + and you won’t play back the least bit.” + </p> + <p> + They walked on in silence for a space. He had, she reflected, a most + disconcerting trick of silence, of ignoring quite without embarrassment + leads, which in her code imperatively called for return. Annoyance stirred + within her, and the eternal feline which is a component part of the + eternal feminine asserted itself. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” she suggested, “you are afraid of me.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I’m not.” + </p> + <p> + “By that you mean ‘Why should I be’?” + </p> + <p> + “Something of the sort.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t Miss Van Arsdale warn you against me?” + </p> + <p> + “How did you know that?” he asked, staring. + </p> + <p> + “A solemn warning not to fall in love with me?” pursued the + girl calmly. + </p> + <p> + He stopped short. “She told you that she had said something to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be idiotic! Of course she didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Then how did you know?” he persisted. + </p> + <p> + “How does one snake know what another snake will do?” she + retorted. “Being of the same—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment. I don’t like that word ‘snake’ in + connection with Miss Van Arsdale.” + </p> + <p> + “Though you’re willing to accept it as applying to me. I + believe you are trying to quarrel with me,” accused Io. “I + only meant that, being a woman, I can make a guess at what another woman + would do in any given conditions. And she did it!” she concluded in + triumph. + </p> + <p> + “No; she didn’t. Not in so many words. But you’re very + clever.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, rather, that <i>you</i> are very stupid,” was the + disdainful retort. “So you’re not going to fall in love with + me?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” answered Banneker in the most cheerfully + commonplace of tones. + </p> + <p> + Once embarked upon this primrose path, which is always an imperceptible + but easy down-slope, Io went farther than she had intended. “Why + not?” she challenged. + </p> + <p> + “Brass buttons,” said Banneker concisely. + </p> + <p> + She flushed angrily. “You <i>can</i> be rather a beast, can’t + you!” + </p> + <p> + “A beast? Just for reminding you that the Atkinson and St. Philip + station-agent at Manzanita does not include in his official duties that of + presuming to fall in love with chance passengers who happen to be more or + less in his care.” + </p> + <p> + “Very proper and official! Now,” added the girl in a different + manner, “let’s stop talking nonsense, and do you tell me one + thing honestly. Do you feel that it would be presumption?” + </p> + <p> + “To fall in love with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Leave that part of it out; I put my question stupidly. I’m + really curious to know whether you feel any—any difference between + your station and mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I do,” she answered honestly, “when I think of it. + But you make it very hard for me to remember it when I’m with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t,” he said. “I suppose I’m a + socialist in all matters of that kind. Not that I’ve ever given much + thought to them. You don’t have to out here.” + </p> + <p> + “No; you wouldn’t. I don’t know that <i>you</i> would + have to anywhere.... Are we almost home?” + </p> + <p> + “Three minutes’ more walking. Tired?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit. You know,” she added, “I really would like + it if you’d write me once in a while. There’s something here I’d + like to keep a hold on. It’s tonic. I’ll <i>make</i> you write + me.” She flashed a smile at him. + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “By sending you books. You’ll have to acknowledge them.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I couldn’t take them. I’d have to send them back.” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t let me send you a book or two just as a friendly + memento?” she cried, incredulous. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t take anything from anybody,” he retorted + doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah; that’s small-minded,” she accused. “That’s + ungenerous. I wouldn’t think that of you.” + </p> + <p> + He strode along in moody thought for a few paces. Presently he turned to + her a rigid face. “If you had ever had to accept food to keep you + alive, you’d understand.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment she was shocked and sorry. Then her tact asserted itself. + “But I have,” she said readily, “all my life. Most of us + do.” + </p> + <p> + The hard muscles around his mouth relaxed. “You remind me,” he + said, “that I’m not as real a socialist as I thought. + Nevertheless, that rankles in my memory. When I got my first job, I swore + I’d never accept anything from anybody again. One of the passengers + on your train tried to tip me a hundred dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “He must have been a fool,” said Io scornfully. + </p> + <p> + Banneker held open the station-door for her. “I’ve got to send + a wire or two,” said he. “Take a look at this. It may give + some news about general railroad conditions.” He handed her the + newspaper which had arrived that morning. + </p> + <p> + When he came out again, the station was empty. + </p> + <p> + Io was gone. So was the newspaper. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + Deep in work at her desk, Camilla Van Arsdale noted, with the outer + tentacles of her mind, slow footsteps outside and a stir of air that told + of the door being opened. Without lifting her head she called: + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find towels and a bathrobe in the passageway.” + </p> + <p> + There was no reply. Miss Van Arsdale twisted in her chair, gave one look, + rose and strode to the threshold where Io Welland stood rigid and still. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she demanded sharply. + </p> + <p> + The girl’s hands gripped a folded newspaper. She lifted it as if for + Miss Van Arsdale’s acceptance, then let it fall to the floor. Her + throat worked, struggling for utterance, as it might be against the + pressure of invisible fingers. + </p> + <p> + “The beast! Oh, the beast!” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + The older woman threw an arm over her shoulders and led her to the big + chair before the fireplace. Io let herself be thrust into it, stiff and + unyielding as a manikin. Any other woman but Camilla Van Arsdale would + have asked questions. She went more directly to the point. Picking up the + newspaper she opened it. Halfway across an inside page ran the explanation + of Io’s collapse. + </p> + <p> + BRITON’S BEAUTIFUL FIANCÉE LOST + </p> + <p> + read the caption, in the glaring vulgarity of extra-heavy type, and below; + </p> + <p> + <i>Ducal Heir Offers Private Reward to Dinner Party of Friends</i> + </p> + <p> + After an estimating look at the girl, who sat quite still with hot, + blurred eyes, Miss Van Arsdale carefully read the article through. + </p> + <p> + “Here is advertising enough to satisfy the greediest appetite for + print,” she remarked grimly. + </p> + <p> + “He’s on one of his brutal drunks.” The words seemed to + grit in the girl’s throat. “I wish he were dead! Oh, I wish he + were dead!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale laid hold on her shoulders and shook her hard. “Listen + to me, Irene Welland. You’re on the way to hysterics or some such + foolishness. I won’t have it! Do you understand? Are you listening + to me?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m listening. But it won’t make any difference what + you say.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at me. Don’t stare into nothingness that way. Have you + read this?” + </p> + <p> + “Enough of it. It ends everything.” + </p> + <p> + “I should hope so, indeed. My dear!” The woman’s voice + changed and softened. “You haven’t found that you cared for + him, after all, more than you thought? It isn’t that?” + </p> + <p> + “No; it isn’t that. It’s the beastliness of the whole + thing. It’s the disgrace.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale turned to the paper again. + </p> + <p> + “Your name isn’t given.” + </p> + <p> + “It might as well be. As soon as it gets back to New York, every one + will know.” + </p> + <p> + “If I read correctly between the lines of this scurrilous thing, Mr. + Holmesley gave what was to have been his bachelor dinner, took too much to + drink, and suggested that every man there go on a separate search for the + lost bride offering two thousand dollars reward for the one who found her. + Apparently it was to have been quite private, but it leaked out. There’s + a hint that he had been drinking heavily for some days.” + </p> + <p> + “My fault,” declared Io feverishly. “He told me once + that if ever I played anything but fair with him, he’d go to the + devil the quickest way he could.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he’s a coward,” pronounced Miss Van Arsdale + vigorously. + </p> + <p> + “What am I? I didn’t play fair with him. I practically jilted + him without even letting him know why.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale frowned. “Didn’t you send him word?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I telegraphed him. I told him I’d write and explain. I + haven’t written. How could I explain? What was there to say? But I + ought to have said something. Oh, Miss Van Arsdale, why didn’t I + write!” + </p> + <p> + “But you did intend to go on and face him and have it out. You told + me that.” + </p> + <p> + A faint tinge of color relieved the white rigidity of Io’s face. + “Yes,” she agreed. “I did mean it. Now it’s too + late and I’m disgraced.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be melodramatic. And don’t waste yourself in + self-pity. To-morrow you’ll see things clearer, after you’ve + slept.” + </p> + <p> + “Sleep? I couldn’t.” She pressed both hands to her + temples, lifting tragic and lustrous eyes to her companion. “I think + my head is going to burst from trying not to think.” + </p> + <p> + After some hesitancy Miss Van Arsdale went to a wall-cabinet, took out a + phial, shook into her hand two little pellets, and returned the phial, + carefully locking the cabinet upon it. + </p> + <p> + “Take a hot bath,” she directed. “Then I’m going + to give you just a little to eat. And then these.” She held out the + drug. + </p> + <p> + Io acquiesced dully. + </p> + <p> + Early in the morning, before the first forelight of dawn had started the + birds to prophetic chirpings, the recluse heard light movements in the + outer room. Throwing on a robe she went in to investigate. On the bearskin + before the flickering fire sat Io, an apparition of soft curves. + </p> + <p> + “D—d—don’t make a light,” she whimpered. + “I’ve been crying.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s good. The best thing you could do.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to go home,” wailed Io. + </p> + <p> + “That’s good, too. Though perhaps you’d better wait a + little. Why, in particular do you want to go home?” + </p> + <p> + “I w-w-w-want to m-m-marry Delavan Eyre.” + </p> + <p> + A quiver of humor trembled about the corners of Camilla Van Arsdale’s + mouth. “Echoes of remorse,” she commented. + </p> + <p> + “No. It isn’t remorse. I want to feel safe, secure. I’m + afraid of things. I want to go to-morrow. Tell Mr. Banneker he must + arrange it for me.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll see. Now you go back to bed and sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather sleep here,” said Io. “The fire is so + friendly.” She curled herself into a little soft ball. + </p> + <p> + Her hostess threw a coverlet over her and returned to her own room. + </p> + <p> + When light broke, there was no question of Io’s going that day, even + had accommodations been available. A clogging lassitude had descended upon + her, the reaction of cumulative nervous stress, anesthetizing her will, + her desires, her very limbs. She was purposeless, ambitionless, except to + lie and rest and seek for some resolution of peace out of the tangled web + wherein her own willfulness had involved her. + </p> + <p> + “The best possible thing,” said Camilla Van Arsdale. “I’ll + write your people that you are staying on for a visit.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; they won’t mind. They’re used to my vagaries. It’s + awfully good of you.” + </p> + <p> + At noon came Banneker to see Miss Welland. Instead he found a curiously + reticent Miss Van Arsdale. Miss Welland was not feeling well and could not + be seen. + </p> + <p> + “Not her head again, is it?” asked Banneker, alarmed. + </p> + <p> + “More nerves, though the head injury probably contributed.” + </p> + <p> + “Oughtn’t I to get a doctor?” + </p> + <p> + “No. All that she needs is rest.” + </p> + <p> + “She left the station yesterday without a word.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied the non-committal Miss Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “I came over to tell her that there isn’t a thing to be had + going west. Not even an upper. There was an east-bound in this morning. + But the schedule isn’t even a skeleton yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably she won’t be going for several days yet,” said + Miss Van Arsdale, and was by no means reassured by the unconscious + brightness which illumined Banneker’s face. “When she goes it + will be east. She’s changed her plans.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me as much notice as you can and I’ll do my best for + her.” + </p> + <p> + The other nodded. “Did you get any newspapers by the train?” + she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; there was a mail in. I had a letter, too,” he added + after a little hesitation, due to the fact that he had intended telling + Miss Welland about that letter first. Thus do confidences, once begun, + inspire even the self-contained to further confidences. + </p> + <p> + “You know there was a reporter up from Angelica City writing up the + wreck.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Gardner, his name is. A nice sort of fellow. I showed him some + nonsense that I wrote about the wreck.” + </p> + <p> + “You? What kind of nonsense?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just how it struck me, and the queer things people said and + did. He took it with him. Said it might give him some ideas.” + </p> + <p> + “One might suppose it would. Did it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, he didn’t use it. Not that way. He sent it to the New + York Sphere for what he calls a ‘Sunday special,’ and what do + you think! They accepted it. He had a wire.” + </p> + <p> + “As Gardner’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. As the impressions of an eye-witness. What’s more, + they’ll pay for it and he’s to send me the check.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, in spite of a casual way of handling other people’s + ideas, Mr. Gardner apparently means to be honest.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s more than square of him. I gave him the stuff to use as + he wanted to. He could just as well have collected for it. Probably he + touched it up, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “The Goths and Vandals usually did ‘touch up’ whatever + they acquired, I believe. Hasn’t he sent you a copy?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s going to send it. Or bring it.” + </p> + <p> + “Bring it? What should attract him to Manzanita again?” + </p> + <p> + “Something mysterious. He says that there’s a big sensational + story following on the wreck that he’s got a clue to; a tip, he + calls it.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s strange. Where did this tip come from? Did he say?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale frowned. + </p> + <p> + “New York, I think. He spoke of its being a special job for The + Sphere.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to help him?” + </p> + <p> + “If I can. He’s been white to me.” + </p> + <p> + “But this isn’t white, if it’s what I suspect. It’s + yellow. One of their yellow sensations. The Sphere goes in for that sort + of thing.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale became silent and thoughtful. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if it’s something to do with the railroad I’d + have to be careful. I can’t give away the company’s affairs.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it is.” Miss Van Arsdale’s troubled + eyes strayed toward the inner room. + </p> + <p> + Following them, Banneker’s lighted up with a flash of astonished + comprehension. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t think—” he began. + </p> + <p> + His friend nodded assent. + </p> + <p> + “Why should the newspapers be after her?” + </p> + <p> + “She is associated with a set that is always in the lime-light,” + explained Miss Van Arsdale, lowering her voice to a cautious pitch. + “It makes its own lime-light. Anything that they do is material for + the papers.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but what has she done?” + </p> + <p> + “Disappeared.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. She sent back messages. So there can’t be any + mystery about it.” + </p> + <p> + “But there might be what the howling headlines call ‘romance.’ + In fact, there is, if they happen to have found out about it. And this + looks very much as if they had. Ban, are you going to tell your reporter + friend about Miss Welland?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker smiled gently, indulgently. “Do you think it likely?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t. But I want you to understand the importance of + not betraying her in any way. Reporters are shrewd. And it might be quite + serious for her to know that she was being followed and hounded now. She + has had a shock.” + </p> + <p> + “The bump on the head, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Worse than that. I think I’d better tell you since we are all + in this thing together.” + </p> + <p> + Briefly she outlined the abortive adventure that had brought Io west, and + its ugly outcome. + </p> + <p> + “Publicity is the one thing we must protect her from,” + declared Miss Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; that’s clear enough.” + </p> + <p> + “What shall you tell this Gardner man?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing that he wants to know.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll try to fool him?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m an awfully poor liar, Miss Camilla,” replied the + agent with his disarming smile. “I don’t like the game and I’m + no good at it. But I can everlastingly hold my tongue.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he’ll suspect something and go nosing about the village + making inquiries.” + </p> + <p> + “Let him. Who can tell him anything? Who’s even seen her + except you and me?” + </p> + <p> + “True enough. Nobody is going to see her for some days yet if I can + help it. Not even you, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she as bad as that?” he asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “She won’t be any the better for seeing people,” replied + Miss Van Arsdale firmly, and with that the caller was forced to be content + as he went back to his own place. + </p> + <p> + The morning train of the nineteenth, which should have been the noon train + of the eighteenth, deposited upon the platform Gardner of the Angelica + City Herald, and a suitcase. The thin and bespectacled reporter shook + hands with Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Man,” he observed. “You’ve made a hit + with that story of yours even before it’s got into print.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you bring me a copy of the paper?” + </p> + <p> + Gardner grinned. “You seem to think Sunday specials are set up and + printed overnight. Wait a couple of weeks.” + </p> + <p> + “But they’re going to publish it?” + </p> + <p> + “Surest thing you know. They’ve wired me to know who you are + and what and why.” + </p> + <p> + “Why what?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I dunno. Why a fellow who can do that sort of thing hasn’t + done it before or doesn’t do it some more, I suppose. If you should + ever want a job in the newspaper game, that story would be pretty much + enough to get it for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t mind getting a little local correspondence to do,” + announced Banneker modestly. + </p> + <p> + “So you intimated before. Well, I can give you some practice right + now. I’m on a blind trail that goes up in the air somewhere around + here. Do you remember, we compared lists on the wreck?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you got any addition to your list since?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Banneker. “Have you?” he added. + </p> + <p> + “Not by name. But the tip is that there was a prominent New York + society girl, one of the Four Hundred lot, on the train, and that she’s + vanished.” + </p> + <p> + “All the bodies were accounted for,” said the agent. + </p> + <p> + “They don’t think she’s dead. They think she’s run + away.” + </p> + <p> + “Run away?” repeated Banneker with an impassive face. + </p> + <p> + “Whether the man was with her on the train or whether she was to + join him on the coast isn’t known. That’s the worst of these + society tips,” pursued the reporter discontentedly. “They’re + always vague, and usually wrong. This one isn’t even certain about + who the girl is. But they think it’s Stella Wrightington,” he + concluded in the manner of one who has imparted portentous tidings. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s she?” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord! Don’t you ever read the news?” cried the + disgusted journalist. “Why, she’s had her picture published + more times than a movie queen. She’s the youngest daughter of Cyrus + Wrightington, the multi-millionaire philanthropist. Now did you see + anything of that kind on the train?” + </p> + <p> + “What does she look like?” asked the cautious Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “She looks like a million dollars!” declared the other with + enthusiasm. “She’s a killer! She’s tall and blonde and a + great athlete: baby-blue eyes and general rosebud effect.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of that sort on the train, so far as I saw,” said the + agent. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see any couple that looked lovey-dovey?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, there’s another tip that connects her up with Carter + Holmesley. Know about him?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen his name.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s been on a hell of a high-class drunk, all up and down + the coast, for the last week or so. Spilled some funny talk at a dinner, + that got into print. But he put up such a heavy bluff of libel, afterward, + that the papers shied off. Just the same, I believe they had it right, and + that there was to have been a wedding-party on. Find the girl: that’s + the stunt now.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you’re likely to find her around here.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe not. But there’s something. Holmesley has beaten it for + the Far East. Sailed yesterday. But the story is still in this country, if + the lady can be rounded up.... Well, I’m going to the village to + make inquiries. Want to put me up again for the night if there’s no + train back?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure thing! There isn’t likely to be, either.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker felt greatly relieved at the easy turn given to the inquiry by + the distorted tip. True, Gardner might, on his return, enter upon some + more embarrassing line of inquiry; in which case the agent decided to take + refuge in silence. But the reporter, when he came back late in the evening + disheartened and disgusted with the fallibility of long-distance tips, + declared himself sick of the whole business. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s talk about something else,” he said, having + lighted his pipe. “What else have you written besides the wreck + stuff?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Come off! That thing was never a first attempt.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, nothing except random things for my own amusement.” + </p> + <p> + “Pass ’em over.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker shook his head. “No; I’ve never shown them to + anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right. If you’re shy about it,” responded the + reporter good-humoredly. “But you must have thought of writing as a + profession.” + </p> + <p> + “Vaguely, some day.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t talk much like a country station-agent. And you don’t + act like one. And, judging from this room”—he looked about at + the well-filled book-shelves—“you don’t look like one. + Quite a library. Harvey Wheelwright! Lord! I might have known. Great + stuff, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I think so! I think it’s the damndest spew that ever got + into print. But it sells; millions. It’s the piety touch does it. + The worst of it is that Wheelwright is a thoroughly decent chap and not + onto himself a bit. Thinks he’s a grand little booster for + righteousness, sweetness and light, and all that. I had to interview him + once. Oh, if I could just have written about him and his stuff as it + really is!” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, he’s a popular literary hero out our way, and the + biggest advertised author in the game. I’d look fine to the business + office, knocking their fat graft, wouldn’t I!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “No; you wouldn’t. Never mind. You will if you ever get into + the game. Hello! This is something different again. ‘The Undying + Voices.’ Do you go in for poetry?” + </p> + <p> + “I like to read it once in a while.” + </p> + <p> + “Good man!” Gardner took down the book, which opened in his + hand. He glanced into it, then turned an inquiring and faintly quizzical + look upon Banneker. “So Rossetti is one of the voices that sings to + you. He sang to me when I was younger and more romantic. Heavens! he can + sing, can’t he! And you’ve picked one of his finest for your + floral decoration.” He intoned slowly and effectively: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, who shall dare to search in what sad maze Thenceforth their + incommunicable ways Follow the desultory feet of Death?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker took the book from him. Upon the sonnet a crushed bloom of the + sage had left its spiced and fragrant stain. How came it there? Through + but one possible agency of which Banneker could think. Io Welland! + </p> + <p> + After the reporter had left him, Banneker bore the volume to his room and + read the sonnet again and again, devout and absorbed, a seeker for the + oracle. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + “Wouldn’t you like to know when I’m going home?” + </p> + <p> + Io Welland looked up from beneath her dark lashes at her hostess with a + mixture of mischief and deprecation. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miss Van Arsdale quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah? Well, I would. Here it is two full weeks since I settled down + on you. Why don’t you evict me?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale smiled. The girl continued: + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t I evict myself? I’m quite well and sane again—at + least I think so—thanks to you. Very well, then, Io; why don’t + you go home?” + </p> + <p> + “Instinct of self-preservation,” suggested the other. “You’re + better off here until your strength is quite restored, aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + The girl propped her chin in her hand and turned upon her companion a + speculative regard. “Camilla Van Arsdale, you don’t really + like me,” she asserted. + </p> + <p> + “Liking is such an undefined attitude,” replied the other, + unembarrassed. + </p> + <p> + “You find me diverting,” defined Io. “But you resent me, + don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s rather acute in you. I don’t like your standards + nor those of your set.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve abandoned them.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll resume them as soon as you get back.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I ever get back?” The girl moved to the door. Her + figure swayed forward yieldingly as if she would give herself into the + keeping of the sun-drenched, pine-soaked air. “Enchantment!” + she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “It is a healing place,” said the habitant of it, low, as if + to herself. + </p> + <p> + A sudden and beautiful pity softened and sobered Io’s face. “Miss + Van Arsdale,” said she with quiet sincerity; “if there should + ever come a time when I can do you a service in word or deed, I would come + from the other side of the world to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “That is a kindly, but rather exaggerated gratitude.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t gratitude. It’s loyalty. Whatever you have + done, I believe you were right. And, right or wrong, I—I am on your + side. But I wonder why you have been so good to me. Was it a sort of class + feeling?” + </p> + <p> + “Sex feeling would be nearer it,” replied the other. “There + is something instinctive which makes women who are alone stand by each + other.” + </p> + <p> + Io nodded. “I suppose so. Though I’ve never felt it, or the + need of it before this. Well, I had to speak before I left, and I suppose + I must go on soon.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall miss you,” said the hostess, and added, smiling, + “as one misses a stimulant. Stay through the rest of the month, + anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to,” answered Io gratefully. “I’ve + written Delavan that I’m coming back—and now I’m quite + dreading it. Do you suppose there ever yet was a woman with understanding + of herself?” + </p> + <p> + “Not unless she was a very dull and stupid woman with little to + understand,” smiled Miss Van Arsdale. “What are you doing + to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Riding down to lunch with your paragon of a station-agent.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale shook her head dubiously. “I’m afraid he’ll + miss his daily stimulant after you’ve gone. It has been daily, hasn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it has, just about,” admitted the girl. “The + stimulus hasn’t been all on one side, I assure you. What a mind to + be buried here in the desert! And what an annoying spirit of contentment! + It’s that that puzzles me. Sometimes it enrages me.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to spoil what you cannot replace?” The retort + was swift, almost fierce. + </p> + <p> + “Surely, you won’t blame me if he looks beyond this horizon,” + protested Io. “Life is sure to reach out in one form or another and + seize on him. I told him so.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” breathed the other. “You would.” + </p> + <p> + “What were you intending to do with him?” + </p> + <p> + There was a hint of challenge in the slight emphasis given to the query. + </p> + <p> + “I? Nothing. He is under no obligation to me.” + </p> + <p> + “There you and he differ. He regards you as an infallible mentor.” + A twinkle of malice crept into the slumbrous eyes. “Why do you let + him wear made-up bow ties?” demanded Io. + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Out here, nothing. But elsewhere—well, it does define a man, + doesn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly. I’ve never gone into it with him.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if I could guess why.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely. You seem preternaturally acute in these matters.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it because the Sears-Roebuck mail-order double-bow knot in + polka-dot pattern stands as a sign of pristine innocence?” + </p> + <p> + In spite of herself Miss Van Arsdale laughed. “Something of that + sort.” + </p> + <p> + Io’s soft lips straightened. “It’s rotten bad form. Why + shouldn’t he be right? It’s so easy. Just a hint—” + </p> + <p> + “From you?” + </p> + <p> + “From either of us. Yes; from me, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s quite an intimate interest, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “‘But never can battle of men compare With merciless feminine + fray’”— quoted Io pensively. + </p> + <p> + “Kipling is a sophomore about women,” retorted Miss Van + Arsdale. “We’re not going to quarrel over Errol Banneker. The + odds are too unfair.” + </p> + <p> + “Unfair?” queried Io, with a delicate lift of brow. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t misunderstand me. I know that whatever you do will be + within the rules of the game. That’s the touchstone of honor of your + kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it good enough? It ought to be, for it’s about + the only one most of us have.” Io laughed. “We’re + becoming very serious. May I take the pony?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Will you be back for supper?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Shall I bring the paragon?” + </p> + <p> + “If you wish.” + </p> + <p> + Outside the gaunt box of the station, Io, from the saddle sent forth her + resonant, young call: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ban!” + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis the voice of the Butterfly; hear her declare, ‘I’ve + come down to the earth; I am tired of the air’” + </p> + <p> + chanted Banneker’s voice in cheerful paraphrase. “Light and + preen your wings, Butterfly.” + </p> + <p> + Their tone was that of comrades without a shade of anything deeper. + </p> + <p> + “Busy?” asked Io. + </p> + <p> + “Just now. Give me another five minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go to the hammock.” + </p> + <p> + One lone alamo tree, an earnest of spring water amongst the dry-sand + growth of the cactus, flaunted its bright verdency a few rods back of the + station, and in its shade Banneker had swung a hammock for Io. Hitching + her pony and unfastening her hat, the girl stretched herself luxuriously + in the folds. A slow wind, spice-laden with the faint, crisp fragrancies + of the desert, swung her to a sweet rhythm. She closed her eyes happily + ... and when she opened them, Banneker was standing over her, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak to me,” she murmured; “I want to + believe that this will last forever.” + </p> + <p> + Silent and acquiescent, he seated himself in a camp-chair close by. She + stretched a hand to him, closing her eyes again. + </p> + <p> + “Swing me,” she ordered. + </p> + <p> + He aided the wind to give a wider sweep to the hammock. Io stirred + restlessly. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve broken the spell,” she accused softly. “Weave + me another one.” + </p> + <p> + “What shall it be?” He bent over the armful of books which he + had brought out. + </p> + <p> + “You choose this time.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” he mused, regarding her consideringly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you may well wonder! I’m in a very special mood to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “When aren’t you, Butterfly?” he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Beware that you don’t spoil it. Choose well, or forever after + hold your peace.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted the well-worn and well-loved volume of poetry. It parted in his + hand to the Rossetti sonnet. He began to read at the lines: + </p> + <p> + “When Work and Will awake too late, to gaze After their life sailed + by, and hold their breath.” + </p> + <p> + Io opened her eyes again. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you select that thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you mark it?” + </p> + <p> + “Did I mark it?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, I’m not responsible for the sage-blossom between + the pages.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the sage! That’s for wisdom,” she paraphrased + lightly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think Rossetti so wise a preceptor?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t often that he preaches. When he does, as in that + sonnet—well, the inspiration may be a little heavy, but he does have + something to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it’s the more evident that you marked it for some + special reason.” + </p> + <p> + “What supernatural insight,” she mocked. “Can you read + your name between the lines?” + </p> + <p> + “What is it that you want me to do?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean to ask what it is that Mr. Rossetti wants you to do. I + didn’t write the sonnet, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t fashion the arrow, but you aimed it.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I a good marksman?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you mean that I’m wasting my time here.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely not!” she gibed. “Forming a link of + transcontinental traffic. Helping to put a girdle ‘round the earth + in eighty days—or is it forty now?—enlightening the traveling + public about the three-twenty-four train; dispensing time-tables and other + precious mediums of education—” + </p> + <p> + “I’m happy here,” he said doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to be, always?” + </p> + <p> + His face darkened with doubt. “Why shouldn’t I be?” he + argued. “I’ve got everything I need. Some day I thought I + might write.” + </p> + <p> + “What about?” The question came sharp and quick. + </p> + <p> + He looked vaguely around the horizon. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, Ban!” she said. “Not this. You’ve got to + know something besides cactuses and owls to write, these days. You’ve + got to know men. And women,” she added, in a curious tone, with a + suspicion of effort, even of jealousy in it. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never cared much for people,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “It’s an acquired taste, I suppose for some of us. There’s + something else.” She came slowly to a sitting posture and fixed her + questioning, baffling eyes on his. “Ban, don’t you want to + make a success in life?” + </p> + <p> + For a moment he did not answer. When he spoke, it was with apparent + irrelevance to what she had said. “Once I went to a revival. A + reformed tough was running it. About every three minutes he’d thrust + out his hands and grab at the air and say, ‘Oh, brothers; don’t + you yearn for Jesus?’” + </p> + <p> + “What has that to do with it?” questioned Io, surprised and + impatient. + </p> + <p> + “Only that, somehow, the way you said ‘success in life’ + made me think of him and his ‘yearn for Jesus.’” + </p> + <p> + “Errol Banneker,” said Io, amused in spite of her annoyance, + “you are possessed of a familiar devil who betrays other people’s + inner thoughts to you. Success <i>is</i> a species of religion to me, I + suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are making converts, like all true enthusiasts. Tell, tell + me. What kind of success?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, power. Money. Position. Being somebody.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m somebody here all right. I’m the station-agent of + the Atkinson and St. Philip Railroad Company.” + </p> + <p> + “Now you’re trying to provoke me.” + </p> + <p> + “No. But to get success you’ve got to want it, haven’t + you?” he asked more earnestly. “To want it with all your + strength.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Every man ought to.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not so sure,” he objected. “There’s a + kind of virtue in staying put, isn’t there?” + </p> + <p> + She made a little gesture of impatience. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you a return for your sonnet,” he pursued, + and repeated from memory: + </p> + <p> + “What else is Wisdom? What of man’s endeavor Or God’s + high grace, so lovely and so great? To stand from fear set free, to + breathe and wait; To hold a hand uplifted over Hate. And shall not + Loveliness be loved forever?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know it. It’s beautiful. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Gilbert Murray’s translation of ‘The Bacchae.’ My + legal mentors had a lapse of dry-as-dustness and sent it to me.” + </p> + <p> + “‘To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait,’” + murmured the girl. “That is what I’ve been doing here. How + good it is! But not for you,” she added, her tone changing from + dreamy to practical. “Ban, I suspect there’s too much poetry + in your cosmos.” + </p> + <p> + “Very probably. Poetry isn’t success, is it?” + </p> + <p> + Her face grew eager. “It might be. The very highest. But you’ve + got to make yourself known and felt among people.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I could? And how does one get that kind of desire?” + he asked lazily. + </p> + <p> + “How? I’ve known men to do it for love; and I’ve known + them to do it for hate; and I’ve known them to do it for money. Yes; + and there’s another cause.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Restlessness.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s ambition with its nerves gone bad, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Again she smiled. “You’ll know what it is some day.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it contagious?” he asked solicitously. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be alarmed. I haven’t it. Not now. I’d love + to stay on and on and just ‘breathe and wait,’ if the gods + were good.” + </p> + <p> + ‘"Dream that the gods are good,’” he echoed. “The last + thing they ever think of being according to my reading.” + </p> + <p> + She capped his line; + </p> + <p> + “We twain, once well in sunder, What will the mad gods do—‘” + </p> + <p> + she began; then broke off, jumping to her feet. “I’m talking + sheer nonsense!” she cried. “Take me for a walk in the woods. + The desert glares to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll have to be back by twelve,” he said. “Excuse + me just a moment.” + </p> + <p> + He disappeared into the portable house. When he rejoined her, she asked: + </p> + <p> + “What did you go in there for? To get your revolver?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve carried one since the day you told me to. Not that I’ve + met a soul that looked dangerous, nor that I’d know how to shoot or + when, if I did.” + </p> + <p> + “The sight of it would be taken as evidence that you knew how to use + it,” he assured her. + </p> + <p> + For a time, as they walked, she had many questions to put about the tree + and bird life surrounding them. In the midst of it he asked her: + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever get restless?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t, here. I’m getting rested.” + </p> + <p> + “And at home I suppose you’re too busy.” + </p> + <p> + “Being busy is no preventive. Somebody has said that St. Vitus is + the patron saint of New York society.” + </p> + <p> + “It must take almost all the time those people have to keep up with + the theaters and with the best in poetry and what’s being done and + thought, and the new books and all that,” he surmised. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon; what was that about poetry and books?” + </p> + <p> + “Girls like you—society girls, I mean—read everything + there is, don’t they?” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you get that extraordinary idea?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, from knowing you.” + </p> + <p> + “My poor, innocent Ban! If you were to try and talk books and + poetry, ‘Shakespeare and the musical glasses,’ to the average + society girl, as you call her, what do you suppose would happen?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I suppose I’d give myself away as an ignoramus.” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven save you for a woolly lambkin! The girl would flee, + shrieking, and issue a warning against you as a high-brow, a prig, and a + hopeless bore. They don’t read books, except a few chocolate-cream + novels. They haven’t the time.” + </p> + <p> + “But you—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m a freak! I get away with it because I’m + passably good-looking and know how to dress, and do what I please by the + divine right of—well, of just doing it. But, even so, a lot of the + men are rather afraid of me in their hearts. They suspect the + bluestocking. Let ’em suspect! The market is plenty good enough,” + declared Io flippantly. + </p> + <p> + “Then you just took up books as a sort of freak; a side issue?” + The disappointment in his face was almost ludicrous. + </p> + <p> + “No.” A quiet gravity altered her expression. “I’ll + tell you about me, if you want to hear. My mother was the daughter of a + famous classical scholar, who was opposed to her marriage because Father + has always been a man of affairs. From the first, Mother brought me up to + love books and music and pictures. She died when I was twelve, and poor + Father, who worshiped her, wanted to carry out her plans for me, though he + had no special sympathy with them. To make things worse for him, nobody + but Mother ever had any control over me; I was spoiled and self-willed and + precocious, and I thought the world owed me a good time. Dad’s + business judgment of human nature saved the situation, he thoroughly + understood one thing about me, that I’d keep a bargain if I made it. + So we fixed up our little contract; I was to go through college and do my + best, and after I graduated, I was to have a free hand and an income of my + own, a nice one. I did the college trick. I did it well. I was third in my + class, and there wasn’t a thing in literature or languages that they + could stop me from getting. At eighteen they turned me loose on the world, + and here I am, tired of it, but still loving it. That’s all of me. + Aren’t I a good little autobiographer. Every lady her own Boswell! + What are you listening to?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a horse coming along the old trail,” said + Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” she asked. “Some one following us?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. A moment later the figure of a mounted man loomed + through the brush. He was young, strong-built, and not ill-looking. + “Howdy, Ban,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Banneker returned the greeting. + </p> + <p> + “Whee-ew!” shrilled the other, wiping his brow. “This + sure does fetch the licker outen a man’s hide. Hell of a wet night + at the Sick Coyote last night. Why wasn’t you over?” + </p> + <p> + “Busy,” replied Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Something in his tone made the other raise himself from his weary droop. + He sighted Io. + </p> + <p> + “Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “Didn’t see there + was ladies present.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning,” said Io. + </p> + <p> + “Visitin’ hereabouts?” inquired the man, eyeing her + curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where, if I might be bold to ask?” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve got any questions to ask, ask them of me, Fred,” + directed Banneker. + </p> + <p> + While there was nothing truculent in his manner, it left no doubt as to + his readiness and determination. + </p> + <p> + Fred looked both sullen and crestfallen. + </p> + <p> + “It ain’t nothin’,” he said. “Only, + inquiries was bein’ made by a gent from a Angelica City noospaper + last week.” + </p> + <p> + “Somebody else meant,” asserted Banneker. “You keep that + in mind, will you? And it isn’t necessary that you should mention + this lady at all. Savvy, Fred?” + </p> + <p> + The other grunted, touched his sombrero to Io and rode on. + </p> + <p> + “Has a reporter been here inquiring after me?” asked Io. + </p> + <p> + “Not after you. It was some one else.” + </p> + <p> + “If the newspapers tracked me here, I’d have to leave at once.” + </p> + <p> + “They won’t. At least, it isn’t likely.” + </p> + <p> + “You’d get me out some way, wouldn’t you, Ban?” + she said trustfully. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban; that Fred person seemed afraid of you.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s got nothing to be afraid of unless he talks too much.” + </p> + <p> + “But you had him ‘bluffed.’ I’m sure you had. Ban, + did you ever kill a man?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Or shoot one?” + </p> + <p> + “Not even that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet, I believe, from the way he looked at you, that you’ve + got a reputation as a ‘bad man’?” + </p> + <p> + “So I have. But it’s no fault of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you get it?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll laugh if I tell you. They say I’ve got a ‘killer’s’ + eye.” + </p> + <p> + The girl examined his face with grave consideration. “You’ve + got nice eyes,” was her verdict. “That deep brown is almost + wasted on a man; some girl ought to have it. I used to hear a—a + person, who made a deep impression on me at the time, insist that there + was always a flaw in the character of a person with large, soft brown + eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t there a flaw in every character?” + </p> + <p> + “Human nature being imperfect, there must be. What is yours; + suppressed murderousness?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. My reputation is unearned, though useful. Just before I + came here, a young chap showed up from nowhere and loafed around + Manzanita. He was a pretty kind of lad, and one night in the Sick Coyote + some of the old-timers tried to put something over on him. When the smoke + cleared away, there was one dead and six others shot up, and Little + Brownie was out on the desert, riding for the next place, awfully sore + over a hole in his new sombrero. He was a two-gun man from down near the + border. Well, when I arrived in town, I couldn’t understand why + every one looked so queerly at my eyes, until Mindle, the mail-driver, + told me they were exactly like the hair-trigger boy’s. Cheap and + easy way to get a reputation, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “But you must have something back of it,” insisted the girl. + “Are you a good shot?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing fancy; there are twenty better in town.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you pin some faith to your ‘gun,’” she + pointed out. + </p> + <p> + He glanced over his shoulder to right and left. Io jumped forward with a + startled cry. So swift and secret had been his motion that she hardly saw + the weapon before—PLACK—PLACK—PLACK—the three + shots had sounded. The smoke drifted around him in a little circle, for + the first two shots had been over his shoulder and the third as he + whirled. Walking back, he carefully examined the trunks of three trees. + </p> + <p> + “I’d have only barked that fellow, if he’d been a man,” + he observed, shaking his head at the second mark. + </p> + <p> + “You frightened me,” complained Io. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to see a little gun-play. Out + here it isn’t how straight you can shoot at a bull’s-eye, but + how quick you can plant your bullets, and usually in a mark that isn’t + obliging enough to be dead in line. So I practice occasionally, just in + case.” + </p> + <p> + “Very interesting. But I’ve got luncheon to cook,” said + Io. + </p> + <p> + They returned through the desert. As he opened the door of the shack for + her, Banneker, reverting to her autobiographical sketch, remarked + thoughtfully and without preliminary: + </p> + <p> + “I might have known there couldn’t be any one else like you.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + Although the vehicle of his professional activities had for some years + been a small and stertorous automobile locally known as “Puffy Pete,” + Mr. James Mindle always referred to his process of postal transfer from + the station to the town as “teamin’ over the mail.” He + was a frail, grinny man from the prairie country, much given to romantic + imaginings and an inordinate admiration for Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Having watched from the seat of his chariot the brief but ceremonial entry + of Number Three, which, on regular schedule, roared through Manzanita at + top speed, he descended, captured the mail-bag and, as the + transcontinental pulled out, accosted the station-agent. + </p> + <p> + “What’d she stop for, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Special orders.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t say nothin’ about havin’ a ravin’ + may-ni-ac aboard, did theh?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban, was you ever in the State of Ohio?” + </p> + <p> + “A long time ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Are Ohio folks liable to be loony?” + </p> + <p> + “Not more than others, I reckon, Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty enthoosiastic about themselves, though, ain’t theh?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I don’t know. It’s a nice country there, Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + “There was one on Number Three sure thought so. Hadn’t + scarcely come to a stop when off he jumps and waves his fins and gives + three cheers for it.” + </p> + <p> + “For what?” + </p> + <p> + “Ohio. I’m tellin’ you. He ramps across the track yippin’ + ‘Ohio! Ohio! Ohio!’ whoopity-yoop. He come right at me and I + says, ‘Watch yehself, Buddy. You’ll git left.’” + </p> + <p> + “What did he say to that?” asked Banneker indulgently. + </p> + <p> + “Never looked at me no more than a doodle-bug. Just yelled ‘Ohio!’ + again. So I come back at him with ‘Missourah.’ He grabs me by + the shoulder and points to your shack. ‘Who owns that little shed?’ + says he, very excited. ‘My friend, Mr. Banneker,’ says I, + polite as always to strangers. ‘But I own that shoulder you’re + leanin’ on, and I’m about to take it away with me when I go,’ + I says. He leaned off and says, ‘Where did that young lady come from + that was standin’ in the doorway a minute ago?’ ‘Young + lady,’ Ban. Do you get that? So I says, ‘You’re lucky, + Bud. When I get ’em, it’s usually snakes and bugs and + such-like rep-tyles. Besides,’ I says, ‘your train is about to + forgit that you got off it,’ I says. With that he gives another + screech that don’t even mean as much as Ohio and tails onto the back + platform just in time.” + </p> + <p> + Said Ban, after frowning consideration: + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t see any lady around the shack, did you, Jimmy?” + </p> + <p> + “Not on your life,” replied the little man indignantly. + “I ain’t had anything like that since I took the mail-teamin’ + contract.” + </p> + <p> + “How good time do you think Puffy Pete could make across-desert in + case I should want it?” inquired the agent after a pause. + </p> + <p> + The mail-man contemplated his “team,” bubbling and panting a + vaporous breath over the platform. “Pete ain’t none too fond + of sand,” he confessed. “But if you want to <i>git</i> + anywhere, him and me’ll git you there. You know that, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker nodded comradely and the post chugged away. + </p> + <p> + Inside the shack Io had set out the luncheon-things. To Banneker’s + eyes she appeared quite unruffled, despite the encounter which he had + surmised from Jimmy’s sketch. + </p> + <p> + “Get me some flowers for the table, Ban,” she directed. + “I want it to look festive.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, in particular?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I’m afraid we won’t have many more luncheons + together.” + </p> + <p> + He made no comment, but went out and returned with the flowers. Meantime + Io had made up her mind. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had an unpleasant surprise, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid so.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced up quickly. “Did you see him?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Mindle, the mail transfer man, did.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Well, that was Aleck Babson. ‘Babbling Babson,’ he’s + called at the clubs. He’s the most inveterate gossip in New York.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a long way from New York,” pointed out Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but he has a long tongue. Besides, he’ll see the + Westerleys and my other friends in Paradiso, and babble to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose he does?” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t have people chasing here after me or pestering me + with letters,” she said passionately. “Yet I don’t want + to go away. I want to get more rested, Ban, and forget a lot of things.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. Comfort and comprehension were in his silence. + </p> + <p> + “You can be as companionable as a dog,” said Io softly. + “Where did you get your tact, I wonder? Well, I shan’t go till + I must.... Lemonade, Ban! I brought over the lemons myself.” + </p> + <p> + They lunched a little soberly and thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “And I wanted it to be festive to-day,” said Io wistfully, + speaking out her thoughts as usual. “Ban, does Miss Camilla smoke?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because if she does, you’ll think it all right. And I want a + cigarette now.” + </p> + <p> + “If you do, I’ll <i>know</i> it’s all right, Butterfly,” + returned her companion fetching a box from a shelf. + </p> + <p> + “Hold the thought!” cried Io gayly. “There’s a + creed for you! ‘Whatever is, is right,’ provided that it’s + Io who does it. Always judge me by that standard, Ban, won’t you?... + Where in the name of Sir Walter Raleigh’s ghost did you get these + cigarettes? ‘Mellorosa’ ... Ban, is this a Sears-Roebuck + stock?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It came from town. Don’t you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s quite curious and interesting. Never mind, my dear; I + won’t tease you.” + </p> + <p> + For all that Io’s “my dear” was the most casual + utterance imaginable, it brought a quick flush to Banneker’s face. + Chattering carelessly, she washed up the few dishes, put them away in the + brackets, and then, smoking another of the despised Mellorosas, wandered + to the book-shelves. + </p> + <p> + “Read me something out of your favorite book, Ban.... No; this one.” + </p> + <p> + She handed him the thick mail-order catalogue. With a gravity equal to her + own he took it. + </p> + <p> + “What will you have?” + </p> + <p> + “Let the spirit of Sears-Roebuck decide. Open at random and expound.” + </p> + <p> + He thrust a finger between the leaves and began: + </p> + <p> + “Our Special, Fortified Black Fiber Trunk for Hard Travel. Made of + Three-Ply Ven—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, to have my trunks again!” sighed the girl. “Turn to + something else. I don’t like that. It reminds me of travel.” + </p> + <p> + Obedient, Banneker made another essay: + </p> + <p> + “Clay County Clay Target Traps. Easily Adjusted to the Elevation—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear!” she broke in again. “That reminds me that + Dad wrote me to look up his pet shot-gun before his return. I don’t + like that either. Try again.” + </p> + <p> + This time the explorer plunged deep into the volume. + </p> + <p> + “How to Make Home Home-like. An Invaluable Counselor for the Woman + of the Household—” + </p> + <p> + Io snatched the book from the reader’s hand and tossed it into a + corner. “Sears-Roebuck are very tactless,” she declared. + “Everything they have to offer reminds one of home. What do you + think of home, Ban? Home, as an abstract proposition. Home as the what-d’you-call-’em + of the nation; the palladium—no, the bulwark? Home as viewed by the + homing pigeon? Home, Sweet Home, as sung by—Would you answer, Ban, + if I stopped gibbering and gave you the chance?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never had much opportunity to judge about home, you + know.” + </p> + <p> + She darted out a quick little hand and touched his sleeve. The raillery + had faded from her face. “So you haven’t. Not very tactful of + me, was it! Will you throw me into the corner with Mr. Sears and Mr. + Roebuck, Ban? I’m sorry.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t be. One gets used to being an air-plant without + roots.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you wouldn’t have fitted out this shack,” she + pointed out shrewdly, “unless you had the instincts of home.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true enough. Fortunately it’s the kind of home I + can take along when they transfer me.” + </p> + <p> + Io went to the door and looked afar on the radiant splendor of the desert, + and, nearer, into the cool peace of the forest. + </p> + <p> + “But you can’t take all this,” she reminded him. + </p> + <p> + “No. I can’t take this.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall you miss it?” + </p> + <p> + A shadow fell upon his face. “I’d miss something—I don’t + know what it is—that no other place has ever given me. Why do you + talk as if I were going away from it? I’m not.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; you are,” she laughed softly. “It is so + written. I’m a seeress.” She turned from the door and threw + herself into a chair. + </p> + <p> + “What will take me?” + </p> + <p> + “Something inside you. Something unawakened. ‘Something lost + beyond the ranges.’ You’ll know, and you’ll obey it.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I ever come back, O seeress?” + </p> + <p> + At the question her eyes grew dreamy and distant. Her voice when she spoke + sank to a low-pitched monotone. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you’ll come back. Sometime.... So shall I ... not for + years ... but—” She jumped to her feet. “What kind of + rubbish am I talking?” she cried with forced merriment. “Is + your tobacco drugged with hasheesh, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “It’s the pull of the desert,” he + murmured. “It’s caught you sooner than most. You’re more + responsive, I suppose; more sens—Why, Butterfly! You’re + shaking.” + </p> + <p> + “A Scotchman would say that I was ‘fey.’ Ban, do you + think it means that I’m coming back here to die?” She laughed + again. “If I were fated to die here, I expect that I missed my good + chance in the smash-up. Fortunately I’m not superstitious.” + </p> + <p> + “There might be worse places,” said he slowly. “It is + the place that would call me back if ever I got down and out.” He + pointed through the window to the distant, glowing purity of the mountain + peak. “One could tell one’s troubles to that tranquil old god.” + </p> + <p> + “Would he listen to mine, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + “Try him before you go. You can leave them all here and I’ll + watch over them for you to see that they don’t get loose and bother + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Absolution! If it were only as easy as that! This <i>is</i> a + haunted place.... Why should I be here at all? <i>Why</i> didn’t I + go when I should? Why a thousand things?” + </p> + <p> + “Chance.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there any such thing? Why can’t I sleep at night yet, as I + ought? Why do I still feel hunted? What’s happening to me, Ban? What’s + getting ready to happen?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. That’s nerves.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I’ll try not to think of it. But at night—Ban, + suppose I should come over in the middle of the night when I can’t + sleep, and call outside your window?” + </p> + <p> + “I’d come down, of course. But you’d have to be careful + about rattlers,” answered the practical Ban. + </p> + <p> + “Your friend, Camilla, would intercept me, anyway. I don’t + think she sleeps too well, herself. Do you know what she’s doing out + here?” + </p> + <p> + “She came for her health.” + </p> + <p> + “That isn’t what I asked you, my dear. Do you know what she’s + doing?” + </p> + <p> + “No. She never told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s interesting. Aren’t you curious?” + </p> + <p> + “If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Indubitably correct, and quite praiseworthy,” mocked the + girl. “Never mind; you know how to be staunch to your friends.” + </p> + <p> + “In this country a man who doesn’t is reckoned a yellow dog.” + </p> + <p> + “He is in any decent country. So take that with you when you go.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going,” he asserted with an obstinate set to + his jaw. + </p> + <p> + “Wait and see,” she taunted. “So you won’t let me + send you books?” she questioned after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I thank you,” she prompted. + </p> + <p> + “No, I thank you,” he amended. “I’m an uncouth + sort of person, but I meant the ‘thank you.’” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you did. And uncouthness is the last thing in the world + you could be accused of. That’s the wonder of it.... No; I don’t + suppose it really is. It’s birth.” + </p> + <p> + “If it’s anything, it’s training. My father was a + stickler for forms, in spite of being a sort of hobo.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, forms make the game, very largely. You won’t find them + essentially different when you go out into the—I forgot again. That + kind of prophecy annoys you, doesn’t it? There is one book I’m + going to send you, though, which you can’t refuse. Nobody can refuse + it. It isn’t done.” + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” + </p> + <p> + Her answer surprised him. “The Bible.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you religious? Of course, a butterfly should be, shouldn’t + she? should believe in the release of the soul from its chrysalis—the + butterfly’s immortality. Yet I wouldn’t have suspected you of + a leaning in that direction.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, religion!” Her tone set aside the subject as + insusceptible of sufficient or satisfactory answer. “I go through + the forms,” she added, a little disdainfully. “As to what I + believe and do—which is what one’s own religion is—why, + I assume that if the game is worth playing at all, there must be a Judge + and Maker of the Rules. As far as I understand them, I follow them.” + </p> + <p> + “You have a sort of religious feeling for success, though, haven’t + you?” he reminded her slyly. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. Just human, common sense.” + </p> + <p> + “But your creed as you’ve just given it, the rules of the game + and that; that’s precisely the Bible formula, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” she caught him up. “You haven’t + a Bible in the place, so far as I’ve noticed.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I haven’t.” + </p> + <p> + “You should have.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably. But I can’t, somehow, adjust myself to that advice + as coming from you.” + </p> + <p> + “Because you don’t understand what I’m getting at. It + isn’t religious advice.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Literary, purely. You’re going to write, some day. Oh, don’t + look doubtful! That’s foreordained. It doesn’t take a seeress + to prophesy that. And the Bible is the one book that a writer ought to + read every day. Isaiah, Psalms, Proverbs. Pretty much all the Old + Testament, and a lot of the New. It has grown into our intellectual life + until its phrases and catchwords are full of overtones and sub-meanings. + You’ve got to have it in your business; your coming business, I + mean. I know what I’m talking about, Mr. Errol Banneker—<i>moi + qui parle</i>. They offered me an instructorship in Literature when I + graduated. I even threatened to take it, just for a joke on Dad. <i>Now</i>, + will you be good and accept my fully explained and diagrammed Bible + without fearing that I have designs on your soul?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And will you please go back to your work at once, and by and by + take me home and stay to supper? Miss Van Arsdale told me to ask you.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I’ll be glad to. What will you do between now and + four o’clock?” + </p> + <p> + “Prowl in your library and unearth more of your secrets.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re welcome if you can find any. I don’t deal in + ’em.” + </p> + <p> + When Banneker, released from his duties until evening train time, rejoined + her, and they were riding along the forest trail, he said: + </p> + <p> + “You’ve started me to theorizing about myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Do it aloud,” she invited. + </p> + <p> + “Well; all my boyhood I led a wandering life, as you know. We were + never anywhere as much as a month at a time. In a way, I liked the change + and adventure. In another way, I got dead sick of it. Don’t you + suppose that my readiness to settle down and vegetate is the reaction from + that?” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds reasonable enough. You might put it more simply by saying + that you were tired. But by now you ought to be rested.” + </p> + <p> + “Therefore I ought to be stirring myself so as to get tired again?” + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t stir, you’ll rust.” + </p> + <p> + “Rust is a painless death for useless mechanism.” + </p> + <p> + She shot an impatient side-glance at him. “Either you’re a + hundred years old,” she said, “or that’s sheer pose.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it is a sort of pose. If so, it’s a self-protective + one.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I asked you to come to New York?” + </p> + <p> + Intrepid though she was, her soul quaked a little at her own words, + foreseeing those mail-order-cut clothes and the resolute butterflyness of + the tie greeting her on Fifth Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “What to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Sell tickets at the Grand Central Station, of course!” she + shot back at him. “Ban, you <i>are</i> aggravating! ‘What to + do?’ Father would find you some sort of place while you were fitting + in.” + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I wouldn’t take a job from you any more than I’d take + anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “You carry principles to the length of absurdity. Come and get your + own job, then. You’re not timid, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not particularly. I’m just contented.” + </p> + <p> + At that provocation her femininity flared. “Ban,” she cried + with exasperation and appeal enchantingly mingled, “aren’t you + going to miss me at all when I go?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been trying not to think of that,” he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, think of it,” she breathed. “No!” she + contradicted herself passionately. “Don’t think of it. I + shouldn’t have said that.... I don’t know what is the matter + with me to-day, Ban. Perhaps I <i>am</i> fey.” She smiled to him + slantwise. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the air,” he answered judicially. “There’s + another storm brewing somewhere or I’m no guesser. More trouble for + the schedule.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s right!” she cried eagerly. “<i>Be</i> the + Atkinson and St. Philip station-agent again. Let’s talk about + trains. It’s—it’s so reliable.” + </p> + <p> + “Far from it on this line,” he answered, adopting her light + tone. “Particularly if we have more rain. You may become a permanent + resident yet.” + </p> + <p> + Some rods short of the Van Arsdale cabin the trail took a sharp turn + amidst the brush. Halfway on the curve Io caught at Banneker’s near + rein. + </p> + <p> + “Hark!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + The notes of a piano sounded faintly clear in the stillness. As the + harmonies dissolved and merged, a voice rose above them, resonant and + glorious, rose and sank and pleaded and laughed and loved, while the two + young listeners leaned unconsciously toward each other in their saddles. + Silence fell again. The very forest life itself seemed hushed in a + listening trance. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens!” whispered Banneker. “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Camilla Van Arsdale, of course. Didn’t you know?” + </p> + <p> + “I knew she was musical. I didn’t know she had a voice like + that.” + </p> + <p> + “Ten years ago New York was wild over it.” + </p> + <p> + “But why—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! She’s beginning again.” + </p> + <p> + Once more the sweep of the chords was followed by the superb voice while + the two wayfarers and all the world around them waited, breathless and + enchained. At the end, Banneker said dreamily: + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never heard anything like that before. It says + everything that can’t be said in words alone, doesn’t it? It + makes me think of something—What is it?” He groped for a + moment, then repeated: + </p> + <p> + “‘A passionate ballad, gallant and gay, Singing afar in the + springtime of life, Singing of youth and of love And of honor that cannot + die.’” + </p> + <p> + Io drew a deep, tremulous breath. “Yes; it’s like that. What a + voice! And what an art to be buried out here! It’s one of her own + songs, I think. Probably an unpublished one.” + </p> + <p> + “Her own? Does she write music?” + </p> + <p> + “She is Royce Melvin, the composer. Does that mean anything to you?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Some day it will. They say that he—every one thinks it’s + a he—will take Massenet’s place as a lyrical composer. I found + her out by accidentally coming on the manuscript of a Melvin song that I + knew. That’s her secret that I spoke of. Do you mind my having told + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, no. It’ll never go any further. I wonder why she never + told me. And why she keeps so shut off from the world here.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah; that’s another secret, and one that I shan’t tell + you,” returned Io gravely. “There’s the piano again.” + </p> + <p> + A few indeterminate chords came to their ears. There followed a jangling + disharmony. They waited, but there was nothing more. They rode on. + </p> + <p> + At the lodge Banneker took the horses around while Io went in. Immediately + her voice, with a note of alarm in it, summoned him. He found her bending + over Miss Van Arsdale, who lay across the divan in the living-room with + eyes closed, breathing jerkily. Her lips were blue and her hands looked + shockingly lifeless. + </p> + <p> + “Carry her into her room,” directed Io. + </p> + <p> + Banneker picked up the tall, strong-built form without effort and + deposited it on the bed in the inner room. + </p> + <p> + “Open all the windows,” commanded the girl. “See if you + can find me some ammonia or camphor. Quick! She looks as if she were + dying.” + </p> + <p> + One after another Banneker tried the bottles on the dresser. “Here + it is. Ammonia,” he said. + </p> + <p> + In his eagerness he knocked a silver-mounted photograph to the floor. He + thrust the drug into the girl’s hand and watched her helplessly as + she worked over the limp figure on the bed. Mechanically he picked up the + fallen picture to replace it. There looked out at him the face of a man of + early middle age, a face of manifest intellectual power, high-boned, + long-lined, and of the austere, almost ascetic beauty which the Florentine + coins have preserved for us in clear fidelity. Across the bottom was + written in a peculiarly rhythmic script, the legend: + </p> + <p> + “Toujours à toi. W.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s coming back,” said Io’s voice. “No. + Don’t come nearer. You’ll shut off the air. Find me a fan.” + </p> + <p> + He ran to the outer room and came back with a palm-leaf. + </p> + <p> + “She wants something,” said Io in an agonized half-voice. + “She wants it so badly. What is it? Help me, Ban! She can’t + speak. Look at her eyes—so imploring. Is it medicine?... No! Ban, + can’t you help?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker took the silver-framed portrait and placed it in the flaccid + hand. The fingers closed over it. The filmiest wraith of a smile played + about the blue lips. + </p> + <p> + An hour later, Io came out to Banneker waiting fearfully in the big room. + </p> + <p> + “She won’t have a doctor. I’ve given her the strychnia + and she insists she’ll be all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think I ought to go for the doctor, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “She wouldn’t see him. She’s very strong-willed.... That’s + a wonderful woman, Ban.” Io’s voice shook a little. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you know about the picture?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw it on the dresser. And when I saw her eyes, I guessed.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; there’s only one thing a woman wants like <i>that</i>, + when she’s dying. You’re rather a wonderful person, yourself, + to have known. That’s her other secret, Ban. The one I said I couldn’t + tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve forgotten it,” replied Banneker gravely. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + Attendance upon the sick-room occupied Io’s time for several days + thereafter. Morning and afternoon Banneker rode over from the station to + make anxious inquiry. The self-appointed nurse reported progress as rapid + as could be expected, but was constantly kept on the alert because of the + patient’s rebellion against enforced idleness. Seizures of the same + sort she had suffered before, it appeared, but none hitherto so severe. + Nothing could be done, she told Io, beyond the administration of the + medicine, for which she had full directions. One day an attack would + finish it all; meantime, in spite of her power of self-repression, she + chafed at the monotony of her imprisonment. + </p> + <p> + In the late afternoon of the day after the collapse, while Io was heating + water at the fireplace, she heard a drawer open in the sick-room and + hurried back to find Miss Van Arsdale hanging to the dresser, her face + gray-splotched and her fingers convulsively crushing a letter which she + had taken from under lock. Alarmed and angry, the amateur nurse got her + back to bed only half conscious, but still cherishing her trove. When, an + hour later, she dared leave her charge, she heard the rustle of + smoothed-out paper and remained outside long enough to allow for the + reading. On her return there was no sign of the letter. Miss Van Arsdale, + a faint and hopeful color in her cheeks, was asleep. + </p> + <p> + For Banneker these were days of trial and tribulation. Added to the + anxiety that he felt for his best friend was the uncertainty as to what he + ought to do about the developments affecting her guest. For he had heard + once more from Gardner. + </p> + <p> + “It’s on the cards,” wrote the reporter, “that I + may be up to see you again. I’m still working, on and off, on the + tip that took me on that wild-goose chase. If I come again I won’t + quit without some of the wild goose’s tail feathers, at least. There’s + a new tip locally; it leaked out from Paradise. [“The Babbling + Babson,” interjected the reader mentally.] It looks as though the + bird were still out your way. Though how she could be, and you not know + it, gets me. It’s even a bigger game than Stella Wrightington, if my + information is O.K. Have you heard or seen anything lately of a Beautiful + Stranger or anything like that around Manzanita?... I enclose clipping of + your story. What do you think of yourself in print?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker thought quite highly of himself in print as he read the article, + which he immediately did. The other matter could wait; not that it was + less important; quite the contrary; but he proposed to mull it over + carefully and with a quiet mind, if he could ever get his mind back to its + peaceful current again: meantime it was good for him to think of something + quite dissociated from the main problem. + </p> + <p> + What writer has not felt the conscious red tingle in his cheeks at first + sight of himself in the magnified personification of type? Here is + something, once himself, now expanded far beyond individual limits, into + the proportions of publicity, for all the world to measure and estimate + and criticize. Ought it to have been done in just that way? Is there not + too much “I” in the presentation? Would not the effect have + been greater had the method been less personal? It seemed to Banneker that + he himself stood forth in a stark nakedness of soul and thought, through + those blatantly assertive words, shameless, challenging to public opinion, + yet delightful to his own appreciation. On the whole it was good; better + than he would have thought he could do. + </p> + <p> + What he had felt, in the writing of it, to be jerks and bumps were + magically smoothed out in the finished product. At one point where the + copy-reader’s blue pencil had elided an adjective which the writer + had deemed specially telling, he felt a sharp pang of disappointed + resentment. Without that characterization the sentence seemed lifeless. + Again, in another passage he wished that he had edited himself with more + heed to the just word. Why had he designated the train as “rumbling” + along the cut? Trains do not rumble between rock walls, he remembered; + they move with a sustained and composite roar. And the finger-wringing + malcontent who had vowed to “soom”; the editorial pencil had + altered that to “sue ’em,” thereby robbing it of its + special flavor. Perhaps this was in accordance with some occult rule of + the trade. But it spoiled the paragraph for Banneker. Nevertheless he was + thrilled and elate.... He wanted to show the article to Io. What would she + think of it? She had read him accurately: it <i>was</i> in him to write. + And she could help him, if only by—well, if only by being at + hand.... But Gardner’s letter! That meant that the pursuit was on + again, more formidably this time. Gardner, the gadfly, stinging this + modern Io out of her refuge of peace and safety! + </p> + <p> + He wrote and dispatched a message to the reporter in care of the Angelica + City Herald: + </p> + <p> + Glad to see you, but you are wasting your time. No such person could be + here without my knowing it. Thanks for article. + </p> + <p> + That was as near an untruth as Banneker cared to go. In his own mind he + defended it on the ground that the projected visit would, in fact, be time + wasted for the journalist since he, Banneker, intended fully that Gardner + should not see Io. Deep would have been his disgust and self-derision + could he have observed the effect of the message upon the cynical and + informed journalist who, however, did not receive it until the second day + after its transmission, as he had been away on another assignment. + </p> + <p> + “The poor fish!” was Gardner’s comment. “He doesn’t + even say that she isn’t there. He’s got to lie better than + that if he goes into the newspaper game.” + </p> + <p> + Further, the reporter had received a note from the cowman whom Ban and Io + had encountered in the woods, modestly requesting five dollars in return + for the warranted fact that a “swell young lady” had been seen + in Banneker’s company. Other journalistic matters were pressing, + however; he concluded that the “Manzanita Mystery,” as he + built it up headline-wise in his ready mind, could wait a day or two + longer. + </p> + <p> + Banneker, through the mechanical course of his office, debated the + situation. Should he tell Io of the message? To do so would only add to + her anxieties, probably to no good purpose, for he did not believe that + she would desert Miss Van Arsdale, ill and helpless, on any selfish + consideration. Fidelity was one of the virtues with which he had + unconsciously garlanded Io. Then, too, Gardner might not come anyway. If + he did Banneker was innocently confident of his own ability to outwit the + trained reporter and prevent his finding the object of his quest. A + prospective and possible ally was forecast in the weather. Warning of + another rainfall impending had come over the wire. As yet there was no + sign visible from his far-horizoned home, except a filmy and changeful + wreath of palest cloud with which Mount Carstairs was bedecked. Banneker + decided for silence. + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale was much better when he rode over in the morning, but Io + looked piteously worn and tired. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve had no rest,” he accused her, away from the sick + woman’s hearing. + </p> + <p> + “Rest enough of its kind, but not much sleep,” said Io. + </p> + <p> + “But you’ve got to have sleep,” he insisted. “Let + me stay and look after her to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn’t be of any use.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t sleep anyway. This house is haunted by spirits of + unrest,” said the girl fretfully. “I think I’ll take a + blanket and go out on the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “And wake up to find a sidewinder crawling over you, and a tarantula + nestling in your ear. Don’t think of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban,” called the voice of Camilla Van Arsdale from the inner + room, clear and firm as he had ever heard it. + </p> + <p> + He went in. She stretched out a hand to him. “It’s good to see + you, Ban. Have I worried you? I shall be up and about again to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Miss Camilla,” protested Banneker, “you mustn’t—” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to get up to-morrow,” repeated the other + immutably. “Don’t be absurd about it. I’m not ill. It + was only the sort of knock-down that I must expect from time to time. + Within a day or two you’ll see me riding over.... Ban, stand over + there in that light.... What’s that you’ve got on?” + </p> + <p> + “What, Miss Camilla?” + </p> + <p> + “That necktie. It isn’t in your usual style. Where did you get + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Sent to Angelica City for it. Don’t you like it?” he + returned, trying for the nonchalant air, but not too successfully. + </p> + <p> + “Not as well as your spotty butterflies,” answered the woman + jealously. “That’s nonsense, though. Don’t mind me, Ban,” + she added with a wry smile. “Plain colors are right for you. Browns, + or blues, or reds, if they’re not too bright. And you’ve tied + it very well. Did it take you long to do it?” + </p> + <p> + Reddening and laughing, he admitted a prolonged and painful session before + his glass. Miss Van Arsdale sighed. It was such a faint, abandoning breath + of regret as might come from the breast of a mother when she sees her + little son in his first pride of trousers. + </p> + <p> + “Go out and say good-night to Miss Welland,” she ordered, + “and tell her to go to bed. I’ve taken a sleeping powder.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker obeyed. He rode home slowly and thoughtfully. His sleep was sound + enough that night. + </p> + <p> + Breakfast-getting processes did not appeal to him when he awoke in the + morning. He walked over, through the earliest light, to the hotel, where + he made a meal of musty eggs, chemical-looking biscuits, and coffee of a + rank hue and flavor, in an atmosphere of stale odors and flies, + sickeningly different from the dainty ceremonials of Io’s + preparation. Rebuking himself for squeamishness, the station-agent + returned to his office, caught an O.S. from the wire, took some general + instructions, and went out to look at the weather. His glance never + reached the horizon. + </p> + <p> + In the foreground where he had swung the hammock under the alamo it + checked and was held, absorbed. A blanketed figure lay motionless in the + curve of the meshwork. One arm was thrown across the eyes, warding a + strong beam which had forced its way through the lower foliage. He tiptoed + forward. + </p> + <p> + Io’s breast was rising and falling gently in the hardly perceptible + rhythm of her breathing. From the pale yellow surface of her dress, below + the neck, protruded a strange, edged something, dun-colored, sharply + defined and alien, which the man’s surprised eyes failed to + identify. Slowly the edge parted and flattened out, broadwise, displaying + the marbled brilliance of the butterfly’s inner wings, illumining + the pale chastity of the sleeping figure as if with a quivering and + evanescent jewel. Banneker, shaken and thrilled, closed his eyes. He felt + as if a soul had opened its secret glories to him. When, commanding + himself, he looked again, the living gem was gone. The girl slept evenly. + </p> + <p> + Conning the position of the sun and the contour of the sheltering tree, + Banneker estimated that in a half-hour or less a flood of sunlight would + pour in upon the slumberer’s face to awaken her. Cautiously + withdrawing, he let himself into the shack, lighted his oil stove, put on + water to boil, set out the coffee and the stand. He felt different about + breakfast-getting now. Having prepared the arrangements for his + prospective guest, he returned and leaned against the alamo, filling his + eyes with still delight of the sleeper. + </p> + <p> + Youthful, untouched, fresh though the face was, in the revealing stillness + of slumber, it suggested rather than embodied something indefinably + ancient, a look as of far and dim inheritances, subtle, ironic, + comprehending, and aloof; as if that delicate and strong beauty of hers + derived intimately from the wellsprings of the race; as if womanhood, + eternal triumphant, and elusive were visibly patterned there. + </p> + <p> + Banneker, leaning against the slender tree-trunk, dreamed over her, + happily and aimlessly. + </p> + <p> + Io opened her eyes to meet his. She stirred softly and smiled at him. + </p> + <p> + “So you discovered me,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “How long have you been here?” + </p> + <p> + She studied the sun a moment before replying. “Several hours.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you walk over in the night?” + </p> + <p> + “No. You told me not to, you know. I waited till the dawn. Don’t + scold me, Ban. I was dead for want of sleep and I couldn’t get it in + the lodge. It’s haunted, I tell you, with unpeaceful spirits. So I + remembered this hammock.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going to scold you. I’m going to feed you. The + coffee’s on.” + </p> + <p> + “How good!” she cried, getting to her feet. “Am I a + sight? I feel frowsy.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a couple of buckets of water up in my room. Help + yourself while I set out the breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + In fifteen minutes she was down, freshened and joyous. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll just take a bite and then run back to my patient,” + she said. “You can bring the blanket when you come. It’s heavy + for a three-mile tramp.... What are you looking thoughtful and sober + about, Ban? Do you disapprove of my escapade?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a foolish question.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s meant to be. And it’s meant to make you smile. Why + don’t you? You <i>are</i> worried. ‘Fess up. What’s + happened?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had a letter from the reporter in Angelica City.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Did he send your article?” + </p> + <p> + “He did. But that isn’t the point. He says he’s coming + up here again.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “You.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he know I’m here? Did he mention my name?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But he’s had some information that probably points to + you.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you answer?” + </p> + <p> + Ban told her. “I think that will hold him off,” he said + hopefully. + </p> + <p> + “Then he’s a very queer sort of reporter,” returned Io + scornfully out of her wider experience. “No; he’ll come. And + if he’s any good, he’ll find me.” + </p> + <p> + “You can refuse to see him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but it’s the mere fact of my being here that will + probably give him enough to go on and build up a loathsome article. How I + hate newspapers!... Ban,” she appealed wistfully, “can’t + you stop him from coming? Must I go?” + </p> + <p> + “You must be ready to go.” + </p> + <p> + “Not until Miss Camilla is well again,” she declared + obstinately. “But that will be in a day or two. Oh, well! What does + it all matter! I’ve not much to pack up, anyway. How are you going + to get me out?” + </p> + <p> + “That depends on whether Gardner comes, and how he comes.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to a darkening line above the southwestern horizon. “If + that is what it looks like, we may be in for another flood, though I’ve + never known two bad ones in a season.” + </p> + <p> + Io beckoned quaintly to the far clouds. “Hurry! Hurry!” she + summoned. “You wrecked me once. Now save me from the Vandal. + Good-bye, Ban. And thank you for the lodging and the breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + Emergency demands held the agent at his station all that day and evening. + Trainmen brought news of heavy rains beyond the mountains. In the morning + he awoke to find his little world hushed in a murky light and with a + tingling apprehension of suspense in the atmosphere. High, gray cloud + shapes hurried across the zenith to a conference of the storm powers, + gathering at the horizon. Weather-wise from long observation, Banneker + guessed that the outbreak would come before evening, and that, unless the + sullen threat of the sky was deceptive, Manzanita would be shut off from + rail communication within twelve hours thereafter. Having two hours’ + release at noon, he rode over to the lodge in the forest to return Io’s + blanket. He found the girl pensive, and Miss Van Arsdale apparently + recovered to the status of her own normal and vigorous self. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been telling Io,” said the older woman, “that, + since the rumor is out of her being here, she will almost certainly be + found by the reporter. Too many people in the village know that I have a + guest.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” asked Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “From my marketing. Probably from Pedro.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely from the patron of the Sick Coyote that you and I met + on our walk,” added the girl. + </p> + <p> + “So the wise thing is for her to go,” concluded Miss Van + Arsdale. “Unless she is willing to risk the publicity.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” assented Io. “The wise thing is for me to go.” + She spoke in a curious tone, not looking at Banneker, not looking at + anything outward and visible; her vision seemed somberly introverted. + </p> + <p> + “Not now, though,” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” asked both women. He answered Io. + </p> + <p> + “You called for a storm. You’re going to get it. A big one. I + could send you out on Number Eight, but that’s a way-train and there’s + no telling where it would land you or when you’d get through. + Besides, I don’t believe Gardner is coming. I’d have heard + from him by now. Listen!” + </p> + <p> + The slow pat-pat-pat of great raindrops ticked like a started clock on the + roof. It ceased, and far overhead the great, quiet voice of the wind said, + “Hush—sh—sh—sh—sh!”, bidding the world + lie still and wait. + </p> + <p> + “What if he does come?” asked Miss Van Arsdale + </p> + <p> + “I’ll get word to you and get her out some way.” + </p> + <p> + The storm burst on Banneker, homebound, just as he emerged from the + woodland, in a wild, thrashing wind from the southwest and a downpour the + most fiercely, relentlessly insistent that he had ever known. A cactus + desert in the rare orgy of a rainstorm is a place of wonder. The + monstrous, spiky forms trembled and writhed in ecstasy, heat-damned souls + in their hour of respite, stretching out exultant arms to the bounteous + sky. Tiny rivulets poured over the sand, which sucked them down with a + thirsting, crisping whisper. A pair of wild doves, surprised and + terrified, bolted close past the lone rider, so near that his mount shied + and headed for the shelter of the trees again. A small snake, curving + indecisively and with obvious bewilderment amidst the growth, paused to + rattle a faint warning, half coiled in case the horse’s step meant a + new threat, then went on with a rather piteous air of not knowing where to + find refuge against this cataclysm of the elements. + </p> + <p> + Lashing in the wind, a long tentacle of the giant ocatilla drew its + cimeter-set thong across Ban’s horse which incontinently bolted. The + rider lifted up his voice and yelled in sheer, wild, defiant joy of the + tumult. A lesser ocatilla thorn gashed his ear so that the blood mingled + with the rain that poured down his face. A pod of the fishhook-barbed + cholla drove its points through his trousers into the flesh of his knee + and, detaching itself from the stem, as is the detestable habit of this + vegetable blood-seeker, clung there like a live thing of prey, from barbs + which must later be removed delicately and separately with the cold steel. + Blindly homing, a jack-rabbit ran almost beneath the horse’s hooves, + causing him to shy again, this time into a bulky vizcaya, as big as a + full-grown man, and inflicting upon Ban a new species of scarification. It + did not matter. Nothing mattered. He rode on, knees tight, lines loose, + elate, shouting, singing, acclaiming the storm which was setting its + irrefragable limits to the world wherein he and Io would still live close, + a few golden days longer. + </p> + <p> + What he picked from the wire when he reached it confirmed his hopes. The + track was threatened in a dozen places. Repair crews were gathering. + Already the trains were staggering along, far behind their schedule. They + would, of course, operate as far as possible, but no reliance was to be + placed upon their movements until further notice. Through the night + traffic continued, but with the coming of the morning and the settling + down of a soft, seeping, unintermittent pour of gray rain, the situation + had clarified. Nothing came through. Complete stoppage, east and west. + Between Manzanita and Stanwood the track was out, and in the other + direction Dry Bed Arroyo was threatening. Banneker reported progress to + the lodge and got back, soaked and happy. Io was thoughtful and content. + </p> + <p> + Late that afternoon the station-agent had a shock which jarred him quite + out of his complacent security. Denny, the operator at Stanwood, wired, + saying: + </p> + <p> + Party here anxious to get through to Manzanita quick. Could auto make + upper desert? + </p> + <p> + No (clicked Banneker in response). Describe party. + </p> + <p> + The answer came back confirming his suspicion: + </p> + <p> + Thin, nice-spoken, wears goggles, smokes cork-tips. Arrived Five from + Angelica held here. + </p> + <p> + Tell impossible by any route (instructed Banneker). Wire result. + </p> + <p> + An hour later came the reply: + </p> + <p> + Won’t try to-night. Probably horse to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + Here was a problem, indeed, fit to chill the untimely self-congratulations + of Banneker. Should the reporter come in—and come he would if it + were humanly possible, by Banneker’s estimate of him—it would + be by the only route which gave exit to the west. On the other side the + flooded arroyo cut off escape. To try to take Io out through the forest, + practically trackless, in that weather, or across the channeled desert, + would be too grave a risk. To all intents and purposes they were marooned + on an island with no reasonable chance of exit—except! To Banneker’s + feverishly searching mind reverted a local legend. Taking a chance on + missing some emergency call, he hurried over to the village and + interviewed, through the persuasive interpretation of sundry drinks, an + aged and bearded wreck whose languid and chipped accents spoke of a life + originally far alien to the habitudes of the Sick Coyote where he was + fatalistically awaiting his final attack of delirium tremens. + </p> + <p> + Banneker returned from that interview with a map upon which had been + scrawled a few words in shaky, scholarly writing. + </p> + <p> + “But one doesn’t say it’s safe, mind you,” had + warned the shell of Lionel Streatham in his husky pipe. “It’s + only as a sporting offer that one would touch it. And the courses may have + changed in seven years.” + </p> + <p> + Denny wired in the morning that the inquiring traveler had set out from + Manzanita, unescorted, on horseback, adding the prediction that he would + have a hell of a trip, even if he got through at all. Late that afternoon + Gardner arrived at the station, soaked, hollow-eyed, stiff, exhausted, and + cheerful. He shook hands with the agent. + </p> + <p> + “How do you like yourself in print?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty well,” answered Banneker. “It read better than I + expected.” + </p> + <p> + “It always does, until you get old in the business. How would you + like a New York job on the strength of it?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker stared. “You mean that I could get on a paper just by + writing that?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say so. Though I’ve known poorer stuff land + more experienced men.” + </p> + <p> + “More experienced; that’s the point, isn’t it? I’ve + had none at all.” + </p> + <p> + “So much the better. A metropolitan paper prefers to take a man + fresh and train him to its own ways. There’s your advantage if you + can show natural ability. And you can.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” muttered Banneker thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Where does Miss Van Arsdale live?” asked the reporter without + the smallest change of tone. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to see Miss Van Arsdale for?” returned the + other, his instantly defensive manner betraying him to the newspaper man. + </p> + <p> + “You know as well as I do,” smiled Gardner. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Van Arsdale has been ill. She’s a good deal of a + recluse. She doesn’t like to see people.” + </p> + <p> + “Does her visitor share that eccentricity?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “See here, Banneker,” said the reporter earnestly; “I’d + like to know why you’re against me in this thing.” + </p> + <p> + “What thing?” fenced the agent. + </p> + <p> + “My search for Io Welland.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is Io Welland, and what are you after her for?” asked + Banneker steadily. + </p> + <p> + “Apart from being the young lady that you’ve been escorting + around the local scenery,” returned the imperturbable journalist, + “she’s the most brilliant and interesting figure in the + younger set of the Four Hundred. She’s a newspaper beauty. She’s + copy. She’s news. And when she gets into a railroad wreck and + disappears from the world for weeks, and her supposed fiancé, the heir to + a dukedom, makes an infernal ass of himself over it all and practically + gives himself away to the papers, she’s big news.” + </p> + <p> + “And if she hasn’t done any of these things,” retorted + Banneker, drawing upon some of Camilla Van Arsdale’s wisdom, brought + to bear on the case, “she’s libel, isn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly libel. But she isn’t safe news until she’s + identified. You see, I’m playing an open game with you. I’m + here to identify her, with half a dozen newspaper photos. Want to see + ’em?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Not interested? Are you going to take me over to Miss Van Arsdale’s?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I? It’s no part of my business as an employee of + the road.” + </p> + <p> + “As to that, I’ve got a letter from the Division + Superintendent asking you to further my inquiry in any possible way. Here + it is.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker took and read the letter. While not explicit, it was sufficiently + direct. + </p> + <p> + “That’s official, isn’t it?” said Gardner mildly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “And this is official,” added Banneker calmly. “The + company can go to hell. Tell that to the D.S. with my compliments, will + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. I don’t want to get you into trouble. I like + you. But I’ve got to land this story. If you won’t take me to + the place, I’ll find some one in the village that will. You can’t + prevent my going there, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t I?” Banneker’s voice had grown low and + cold. A curious light shone in his eyes. There was an ugly flicker of + smile on his set mouth. + </p> + <p> + The reporter rose from the chair into which he had wetly slumped. He + walked over to face his opponent who was standing at his desk. Banneker, + lithe, powerful, tense, was half again as large as the other; obviously + more muscular, better-conditioned, more formidable in every way. But there + is about a man, singly and selflessly intent upon his job in hand, an + inner potency impossible to obstruct. Banneker recognized it; inwardly + admitted, too, the unsoundness of the swift, protective rage rising + within, himself. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t propose to make trouble for you or to have trouble + with you,” said the reporter evenly. “But I’m going to + Miss Van Arsdale’s unless I’m shot on the way there.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right,” returned the agent, mastering + himself. “I beg your pardon for threatening you. But you’ll + have to find your own way. Will you put up here for the night, again?” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. Glad to, if it won’t trouble you. See you later.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not. I’m turning in early. I’ll leave the shack + unlocked for you.” + </p> + <p> + Gardner opened the outer door and was blown back into the station by an + explosive gust of soaking wind. + </p> + <p> + “On second thought,” said he, “I don’t think I’ll + try to go out there this evening. The young lady can’t very well get + away to-night, unless she has wings, and it’s pretty damp for + flying. Can I get dinner over at the village?” + </p> + <p> + “Such as it is. I’ll go over with you.” + </p> + <p> + At the entrance to the unclean little hotel they parted, Banneker going + further to find Mindle the “teamer,” whom he could trust and + with whom he held conference, brief and very private. They returned to the + station together in the gathering darkness, got a hand car onto the track, + and loaded it with a strange burden, after which Mindle disappeared into + the storm with the car while Banneker wired to Stanwood an imperative call + for a relief for next day even though the substitute should have to walk + the twenty-odd miles. Thereafter he made, from the shack, a careful + selection of food with special reference to economy of bulk, fastened it + deftly beneath his poncho, saddled his horse, and set out for the Van + Arsdale lodge. The night was pitch-black when he entered the area of the + pines, now sonorous with the rush of the upper winds. + </p> + <p> + Io saw the gleam of his flashlight and ran to the door to meet him. + </p> + <p> + “Are you ready?” he asked briefly. + </p> + <p> + “I can be in fifteen minutes.” She turned away, asking no + questions. + </p> + <p> + “Dress warmly,” he said. “It’s an all-night trip. + By the way, can you swim?” + </p> + <p> + “For hours at a time.” + </p> + <p> + Camilla Van Arsdale entered the room. “Are you taking her away, Ban? + Where?” + </p> + <p> + “To Miradero, on the Southwestern and Sierra.” + </p> + <p> + “But that’s insanity,” protested the other. “Sixty + miles, isn’t it? And over trailless desert.” + </p> + <p> + “All of that. But we’re not going across country. We’re + going by water.” + </p> + <p> + “By water? Ban, you <i>are</i> out of your mind. Where is there any + waterway?” + </p> + <p> + “Dry Bed Arroyo. It’s running bank-full. My boat is waiting + there.” + </p> + <p> + “But it will be dangerous. Terribly dangerous. Io, you mustn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go,” said the girl quietly, “if Ban says so.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no other way out. And it isn’t so dangerous if + you’re used to a boat. Old Streatham made it seven years ago in the + big flood. Did it in a bark canoe on a hundred-dollar bet. The Arroyo + takes you out to the Little Bowleg and that empties into the Rio Solano, + and there you are! I’ve got his map.” + </p> + <p> + “Map?” cried Miss Van Arsdale. “What use is a map when + you can’t see your hand before your face?” + </p> + <p> + “Give this wind a chance,” answered Banneker. “Within + two hours the clouds will have broken and we’ll have moonlight to go + by.... The Angelica Herald man is over at the hotel now,” he added. + </p> + <p> + “May I take a suitcase?” asked Io. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. I’ll strap it to your pony if you’ll get it + ready. Miss Camilla, what shall we do with the pony? Hitch him under the + bridge?” + </p> + <p> + “If you’re determined to take her, I’ll ride over with + you and bring him back. Io, think! Is it worth the risk? Let the reporter + come. I can keep him away from you.” + </p> + <p> + A brooding expression was in the girl’s deep eyes as she turned + them, not to the speaker, but to Banneker. “No,” she said. + “I’ve got to get away sooner or later. I’d rather go + this way. It’s more—it’s more of a pattern with all the + rest; better than stupidly waving good-bye from the rear of a train.” + </p> + <p> + “But the danger.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Che sará, sará</i>,” returned Io lightly. “I’ll + trust him to take care of me.” + </p> + <p> + While Ban went out to prepare the horses with the aid of Pedro, strictly + enjoined to secrecy, the two women got Io’s few things together. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t thank you,” said the girl, looking up as she + snapped the lock of her case. “It simply isn’t a case for + thanking. You’ve done too much for me.” + </p> + <p> + The older woman disregarded it. “How much are you hurting Ban?” + she said, with musing eyes fixed on the dim and pure outline of the + girlish face. + </p> + <p> + “I? Hurt him?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he won’t realize it until you’ve gone. Then I’m + afraid to think what is coming to him.” + </p> + <p> + “And I’m afraid to think what is coming to me,” replied + the girl, very low. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you!” retorted her hostess, dismissing that consideration + with contemptuous lightness. “You have plenty of compensations, + plenty of resources.” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. Up to now. What will he do when he wakes up to an empty + world?” + </p> + <p> + “Write, won’t he? And then the world won’t be empty.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll think it so. That is why I’m sorry for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you be sorry a little for me?” pleaded the girl. + “Anyway, for the part of me that I’m leaving here? Perhaps it’s + the very best of me.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale shook her head. “Oh, no! A pleasantly vivid dream + of changed and restful things. That’s all. Your waking will be only + a sentimental and perfumed regret—a sachet-powder sorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re bitter.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want him hurt,” protested the other. “Why + did you come here? What should a girl like you, feverish and + sensation-loving and artificial, see in a boy like Ban to charm you?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, don’t you understand? It’s just because my world + has been too dressed up and painted and powdered that I feel the charm of—of—well, + of ease of existence. He’s as easy as an animal. There’s + something about him—you must have felt it—sort of impassioned + sense of the gladness of life; when he has those accesses he’s like + a young god, or a faun. But he doesn’t know his own power. At those + times he might do anything.” + </p> + <p> + She shivered a little and her lids drooped over the luster of her dreaming + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “And you want to tempt him out of this to a world where he would be + a wretched misfit,” accused the older woman. + </p> + <p> + “Do I? No; I think I don’t. I think I’d rather hold him + in my mind as he is here: a happy eremite; no, a restrained pagan. Oh, it’s + foolish to seek definitions for him. He isn’t definable. He’s + Ban....” + </p> + <p> + “And when you get back into the world, what will you do, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t send for him, if that’s what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “But what <i>will</i> you do, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” repeated Io somberly. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + Silently they rode through the stir and thresh of the night, the two women + and the man. For guidance along the woods trail they must trust to the + finer sense of their horses whose heads they could not see in the + closed-in murk. A desultory spray fell upon them as the wind wrenched at + the boughs overhead, but the rain had ceased. Infinitely high, infinitely + potent sounded the imminent tumult of the invisible Powers of the night, + on whose sufferance they moved, tiny, obscure, and unharmed. It filled all + the distances. + </p> + <p> + Debouching upon the open desert, they found their range of vision slightly + expanded. They could dimly perceive each other. The horses drew closer + together. With his flash covered by his poncho, Banneker consulted a + compass and altered their course, for he wished to give the station, to + which Gardner might have returned, a wide berth. Io moved up abreast of + him as he stood, studying the needle. Had he turned the light upward he + would have seen that she was smiling. Whether he would have interpreted + that smile, whether, indeed, she could have interpreted it herself, is + doubtful. + </p> + <p> + Presently they picked up the line of telegraph poles, well beyond the + station, just the faintest suggestion of gaunt rigor against the troubled + sky, and skirted them, moving more rapidly in the confidence of assured + direction. A very gradual, diffused alleviation of the darkness began to + be felt. The clouds were thinning. Something ahead of them hissed in a + soft, full, insistent monosonance. Banneker threw up a shadowy arm. They + dismounted on the crest of a tiny desert clifflet, now become the bank of + a black current which nuzzled and nibbled into its flanks. + </p> + <p> + Io gazed intently at the flood which was to deliver her out of the hands + of the Philistine. How far away the other bank of the newborn stream might + be, she could only guess from the vague rush in her ears. The arroyo’s + water slipped ceaselessly, objectlessly away from beneath her strained + vision, smooth, suave, even, effortless, like the process of some + unhurried and mighty mechanism. Now and again a desert plant, uprooted + from its arid home, eddied joyously past her, satiated for once of its + lifelong thirst; and farther out she thought to have a glimpse of some + dead and whitish animal. But these were minor blemishes on a great, + lustrous ribbon of silken black, unrolled and re-rolled from darkness into + darkness. + </p> + <p> + “It’s beckoning us,” said Io, leaning to Banneker, her + hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “We must wait for more light,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Will you trust yourself to <i>that</i>?” asked Camilla Van + Arsdale, with a gesture of fear and repulsion toward the torrent. + </p> + <p> + “Anywhere!” returned Io. There was exaltation in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t understand it,” cried the older woman. “How + do you know what may lie before you?” + </p> + <p> + “That is the thrill of it.” + </p> + <p> + “There may be death around the first curve. It’s so unknown; + so secret and lawless.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, and I’m lawless!” cried Io. “I could defy the + gods on a night like this!” + </p> + <p> + She flung her arms aloft, in a movement of sweet, wild abandon, and, as if + in response to an incantation, the sky was reft asunder and the moon + rushed forth, free for the moment of the clutching clouds, fugitive, + headlong, a shining Maenad of the heavens, surrounded by the rush and + whirl that had whelmed earth and its waters and was hurrying them to an + unknown, mad destiny. + </p> + <p> + “Now we can see our way,” said Banneker, the practical. + </p> + <p> + He studied the few rods of sleek, foamless water between him and the + farther bank, and, going to the steel boat which Mindle had brought to the + place on the hand car, took brief inventory of its small cargo. Satisfied, + he turned to load in Io’s few belongings. He shipped the oars. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll let her go stem-first,” he explained; “so + that I can see what we’re coming to and hold her if there’s + trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “But can you see?” objected Miss Van Arsdale, directing a + troubled look at the breaking sky. + </p> + <p> + “If we can’t, we’ll run her ashore until we can.” + </p> + <p> + He handed Io the flashlight and the map. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll want me in the bow seat if we’re traveling + reversed,” said she. + </p> + <p> + He assented. “Good sailorwoman!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like it,” protested Miss Van Arsdale. “It’s + a mad business. Ban, you oughtn’t to take her.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s too late to talk of that,” said Io. + </p> + <p> + “Ready?” questioned Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed the stern of the boat into the stream, and the current laid it + neatly and powerfully flat to the sheer bank. Io kissed Camilla Van + Arsdale quickly and got in. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll wire you from Miradero,” she promised. “You’ll + find the message in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + The woman, mastering herself with a difficult effort, held out her hand to + Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “If you won’t be persuaded,” she said, “then good—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he broke in quickly. “That’s bad luck. We + shall be all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Good luck, then,” returned his friend, and turned away into + the night. + </p> + <p> + Banneker, with one foot in the boat, gave a little shove and caught up his + oars. An unseen hand of indeterminable might grasped the keel and moved + them quietly, evenly, outward and forward, puppets given into the custody + of the unregarding powers. Oars poised and ready, Ban sat with his back + toward his passenger, facing watchfully downstream. + </p> + <p> + Leaning back into the curve of the bow, Io gave herself up to the pulsing + sweep of the night. Far, far above her stirred a cosmic tumult. The air + might have been filled with vast wings, invisible and incessant in the + night of wonders. The moon plunged headlong through the clouds, now + submerged, now free, like a strong swimmer amidst surf. She moved to the + music of a tremendous, trumpeting note, the voice of the unleashed Spring, + male and mighty, exulting in his power, while beneath, the responsive, + desirous earth thrilled and trembled and was glad. + </p> + <p> + The boat, a tiny speck on the surface of chaos, darted and checked and + swerved lightly at the imperious bidding of unguessed forces, reaching up + from the depths to pluck at it in elfish sportiveness. Only when Ban + thrust down the oar-blades, as he did now and again to direct their course + or avoid some obstacle, was Io made sensible, through the jar and tremor + of the whole structure, how swiftly they moved. She felt the spirit of the + great motion, of which they were a minutely inconsiderable part, enter + into her soul. She was inspired of it, freed, elated, glorified. She + lifted up her voice and sang. Ban, turning, gave her one quick look of + comprehension, then once more was intent and watchful of their master and + servitor, the flood. + </p> + <p> + “Ban,” she called. + </p> + <p> + He tossed an oar to indicate that he had heard. + </p> + <p> + “Come back and sit by me.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to hesitate. + </p> + <p> + “Let the boat go where it wants to! The river will take care of us. + It’s a good river, and so strong! I think it loves to have us here.” + </p> + <p> + Ban shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “‘Let the great river bear us to the sea,’” sang + Io in her fresh and thrilling voice, stirring the uttermost fibers of his + being with delight. “Ban, can’t you trust the river and the + night and—and the mad gods? I can.” + </p> + <p> + Again he shook his head. In his attitude she sensed a new concentration + upon something ahead. She became aware of a strange stir that was not of + the air nor the water. + </p> + <p> + “Hush—sh—sh—sh—sh!” said something + unseen, with an immense effect of restraint and enforced quiet. + </p> + <p> + The boat slewed sharply as Banneker checked their progress with a + downthrust of oars. He edged in toward the farther bank which was quite + flat, studying it with an eye to the most favoring spot, having selected + which, he ran the stern up with several hard shoves, leapt out, hauled the + body of the craft free from the balked and snatching current, and held out + a hand to his passenger. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she asked as she joined him. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I’m trying to think where I’ve + heard that noise before.” He pondered. “Ah, I’ve got it! + It was when I was out on the coast in the big rains, and a few million + tons of river-bank let go all holds and smushed down into the stream.... + What’s on your map?” + </p> + <p> + He bent over it, conning its detail by the light of the flash which she + turned on. + </p> + <p> + “We should be about here,” he indicated, touching the paper, + “I’ll go ahead and take a look.” + </p> + <p> + “Shan’t I go with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Better stay quiet and get all the rest you can.” + </p> + <p> + He was gone some twenty minutes. “There’s a big, fresh-looking + split-off in the opposite bank,” he reported; “and the water + looks fizzy and whirly around there. I think we’ll give her a little + time to settle. A sudden shift underneath might suck us down. The water’s + rising every minute, which makes it worth while waiting. Besides, it’s + dark just now.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe in fate?” asked the girl abruptly, as he + seated himself on the sand beside her. “That’s a silly, + schoolgirl thing to say, isn’t it?” she added. “But I + was thinking of this boat being there in the middle of the dry desert, + just when we needed it most.” + </p> + <p> + “It had been there some time,” pointed out Banneker. “And + if we couldn’t have come this way, I’d have found some other.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you would,” crowed Io softly. + </p> + <p> + “So, I don’t believe in fate; not the ready-made kind. Things + aren’t that easy. If I did—” + </p> + <p> + “If you did?” she prompted as he paused. + </p> + <p> + “I’d get back into the boat with you and throw away the oars.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare you!” she cried recklessly. + </p> + <p> + “We’d go whirling and spinning along,” he continued with + dreams in his voice, “until dawn came, and then we’d go ashore + and camp.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “How should I know? In the Enchanted Canyon where it enters the + Mountains of Fulfillment.... They’re not on this map.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re not on any map. More’s the pity. And then?” + </p> + <p> + “Then we’d rest. And after that we’d climb to the + Plateau Beyond the Clouds where the Fadeless Gardens are, and there...” + </p> + <p> + “And there?” + </p> + <p> + “There we’d hear the Undying Voices singing.” + </p> + <p> + “Should we sing, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. ‘For they who attain these heights, through pain + of upward toil and the rigors of abstention, are as the demigods, secure + above evil and the fear thereof.’” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what that is, but I hate the ‘upward toil’ + part of it, and the ‘abstention’ even more. We ought to be + able to become demigods without all that, just because we wish it. In a + fairy-tale, anyway. I don’t think you’re a really competent + fairy-tale-monger, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t let me go on to the ‘live happy ever after’ + part,” he complained. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s the serpent, the lying, poisoning little serpent, + always concealed in the gardens of dreams. They don’t, Ban; people + don’t live happy ever after. I could believe in fairy-tales up to + that point. Just there ugly old Experience holds up her bony finger—she’s + a horrid hag, Ban, but we’d all be dead or mad without her—and + points to the wriggling little snake.” + </p> + <p> + “In my garden,” said he, “she’d have shining wings + and eyes that could look to the future as well as to the past, and + immortal Hope for a lover. It would be worth all the toil and the + privation.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody ever made up a Paradise,” said the girl fretfully, + “but what the Puritan in him set the road with sharp stones and + bordered it with thorns and stings.... Look, Ban! Here’s the moon + come back to us.... And see what’s laughing at us and our dreams.” + </p> + <p> + On the crest of a sand-billow sprawled a huge organ-cactus, brandishing + its arms in gnomish derision of their presence. + </p> + <p> + “How can one help but believe in foul spirits with that thing to + prove their existence?” she said. “And, look! There’s + the good spirit in front of that shining cloud.” + </p> + <p> + She pointed to a yucca in full, creamy flower; a creature of unearthly + purity in the glow of the moon, a dream-maiden beckoning at the gates of + darkness to a world of hidden and ineffable beauty. + </p> + <p> + “When I saw my first yucca in blossom,” said Banneker, “it + was just before sunrise after I had been riding all night, and I came on + it around a dip in the hills, standing alone against a sky of pearl and + silver. It made me think of a ghost, the ghost of a girl who had died too + young to know womanhood, died while she was asleep and dreaming pale, soft + dreams, never to be fulfilled.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the injustice of death,” she answered. “To + take one before one knows and has felt and been all that there is to know + and feel and be.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet”—he turned a slow smile to her—“you + were just now calling Experience bad names; a horrid hag, wasn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “At least, she’s life,” retorted the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She’s life.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban, I want to go on. The whole universe is in motion. Why must we + stand still?” + </p> + <p> + They reëmbarked. The grip of the hurrying depths took them past crinkly + water, lustrously bronze in the moonlight where the bank had given way, + and presently delivered them, around the shoulder of a low, brush-crowned + bluff, into the keeping of a swollen creek. Here the going was more + tricky. There were shoals and whirls at the bends, and plunging flotsam to + be avoided. Banneker handled the boat with masterly address, easing her + through the swift passages, keeping her, with a touch here and a dip + there, to the deepest flow, swerving adroitly to dodge the trees and brush + which might have punctured the thin metal. Once he cried out and lunged at + some object with an unshipped oar. It rolled and sank, but not before Io + had caught the contour of a pasty face. She was startled rather than + horrified at this apparition of death. It seemed an accessory proper to + the pattern of the bewitched night. + </p> + <p> + Through a little, silvered surf of cross-waves, they were shot, after an + hour of this uneasy going, into the broad, clean sweep of the Little + Bowleg River. After the troubled progress of the lesser current it seemed + very quiet and secure; almost placid. But the banks slipped by in an + endless chain. Presently they came abreast of three horsemen riding the + river trail, who urged their horses into a gallop, keeping up with them + for a mile or more. As they fell away, Io waved a handkerchief at them, to + which they made response by firing a salvo from their revolvers into the + air. + </p> + <p> + “We’re making better than ten miles an hour,” Banneker + called over his shoulder to his passenger. + </p> + <p> + They shot between the split halves of a little, scraggly, ramshackle town, + danced in white water where the ford had been, and darted onward. Now + Banneker began to hold against the current, scanning the shores until, + with a quick wrench, he brought the stern around and ran it up on a muddy + bit of strand. + </p> + <p> + “Grub!” he announced gayly. + </p> + <p> + Languor had taken possession of Io, the languor of one who yields to + unknown and fateful forces. Passive and at peace, she wanted nothing but + to be wafted by the current to whatever far bourne might await her. That + there should be such things as railway trains and man-made schedules in + this world of winds and mystery and the voice of great waters, was hard to + believe; hardly worth believing in any case. Better not to think of it: + better to muse on her companion, building fire as the first man had built + for the first woman, to feed and comfort her in an environment of imminent + fears. + </p> + <p> + Coffee, when her man brought it, seemed too artificial for the time and + place. She shook her head. She was not hungry. + </p> + <p> + “You must,” insisted Ban. He pointed downstream where the murk + lay heavy. “We shall run into more rain. You will need the warmth + and support of food.” + </p> + <p> + So, because there were only they two on the face of the known earth, woman + and man, the woman obeyed the man. To her surprise, she found that she was + hungry, ardently hungry. Both ate heartily. It was a silent meal; little + spoken except about the chances and developments of the journey, until she + got to her feet. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “I shall never, as long as I live, wherever I go, whatever I do, + know anything like this again. I shall not want to. I want it to stand + alone.” + </p> + <p> + “It will stand alone,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + They met the rain within half an hour, a wall-like mass of it. It blotted + out everything around them. The roar of it cut off sound, as the mass of + it cut off sight. Fortunately the boat was now going evenly as in an oiled + groove. By feeling, Io knew that her guide was moving from his seat, and + guessed that he was bailing. The spare poncho, put in by Miss Van Arsdale, + protected her. She was jubilant with the thresh of the rain in her face, + the sweet, smooth motion of the boat beneath her, the wild abandon of the + night, which, entering into her blood, had transmuted it into soft fire. + </p> + <p> + How long she crouched, exultant and exalted, under the beat of the storm, + she could not guess. She half emerged from her possession with a strange + feeling that the little craft was being irresistibly drawn forward and + downward in what was now a suction rather than a current. At the same time + she felt the spring and thrust of Banneker’s muscles, straining at + the oars. She dipped a hand into the water. It ridged high around her + wrists with a startling pressure. What was happening? + </p> + <p> + Through the uproar she could dimly hear Ban’s voice. He seemed to be + swearing insanely. Dropping to her hands and knees, for the craft was now + swerving and rocking, she crept to him. + </p> + <p> + “The dam! The dam! The dam!” he shouted. “I’d + forgotten about it. Go back. Turn on the flash. Look for shore.” + </p> + <p> + Against rather than into that impenetrable enmeshment of rain, the glow + dispersed itself ineffectually. Io sat, not frightened so much as + wondering. Her body ached in sympathy with the panting, racking toil of + the man at the oars, the labor of an indomitable pigmy, striving to thwart + a giant’s will. Suddenly he shouted. The boat spun. Something low + and a shade blacker than the dull murk about them, with a white, + whispering ripple at its edge, loomed. The boat’s prow drove into + soft mud as Banneker, all but knocking her overboard in his dash, plunged + to the land and with one powerful lift, brought boat and cargo to safety. + </p> + <p> + For a moment he leaned, gasping, against a stump. When he spoke, it was to + reproach himself bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “We must have come through the town. There’s a dam below it. I’d + forgotten it. My God! If we hadn’t had the luck to strike shore.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a high dam?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “In this flood we’d be pounded to death the moment we were + over. Listen! You can hear it.” + </p> + <p> + The rain had diminished a little. Above its insistence sounded a deeper, + more formidable beat and thrill. + </p> + <p> + “We must be quite close to it,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “A few rods, probably. Let me have the light. I want to explore + before we start out.” + </p> + <p> + Much sooner than she had expected, he was back. He groped for and took her + hand. His own was steady, but his voice shook as he said: + </p> + <p> + “Io.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the first time you’ve called me that. Well, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Can you stand it to—to have me tell you something?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “We’re not on the shore.” + </p> + <p> + “Where, then? An island?” + </p> + <p> + “There aren’t any islands here. It must be a bit of the + mainland cut off by the flood.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not afraid, if that’s what you mean. We can stand + it until dawn.” + </p> + <p> + A wavelet lapped quietly across her foot. She withdrew it and with that + involuntary act came understanding. Her hand, turning in his, pressed + close, palm cleaving to palm. + </p> + <p> + “How much longer?” she asked in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Not long. It’s just a tiny patch. And the river is rising + every minute.” + </p> + <p> + “How long?” she persisted. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps two hours. Perhaps less. My good God! If there’s any + special hell for criminal fools, I ought to go to it for bringing you to + this,” he burst out in agony. + </p> + <p> + “I brought you. Whatever there is, we’ll go to it together.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re wonderful beyond all wonders. Aren’t you afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. It isn’t so much fear, though I dread to + think of that hammering-down weight of water.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t!” he cried brokenly. “I can’t bear to + think of you—” He lifted his head sharply. “Isn’t + it lightening up? Look! Can you see shore? We might be quite near.” + </p> + <p> + She peered out, leaning forward. “No; there’s nothing.” + Her hand turned within his, released itself gently. “I’m not + afraid,” she said, speaking clear and swift. “It isn’t + that. But I’m—rebellious. I hate the idea of it, of ending + everything; the unfairness of it. To have to die without knowing the—the + realness of life. Unfulfilled. It isn’t fair,” she accused + breathlessly. “Ban, it’s what we were saying. Back there on + the river-bank where the yucca stands. I don’t want to go—I + can’t bear to go—before I’ve known ... before....” + </p> + <p> + Her arms crept to enfold him. Her lips sought his, tremulous, + surrendering, demanding in surrender. With all the passion and longing + that he had held in control, refusing to acknowledge even their existence, + as if the mere recognition of them would have blemished her, he caught her + to him. He heard her, felt her sob once. The roar of the cataract was + louder, more insistent in his ears ... or was it the rush of the blood in + his veins?... Io cried out, a desolate and hungry cry, for he had wrenched + his mouth from hers. She could feel the inner man abruptly withdrawn, + concentrated elsewhere. She opened her eyes upon an appalling radiance + wherein his face stood out clear, incredulous, then suddenly eager and + resolute. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a headlight!” he cried. “A train! Look, Io! + The mainland. It’s only a couple of rods away.” + </p> + <p> + He slipped from her arms, ran to the boat. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” she called weakly. “Ban! You + can never make it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got to. It’s our only chance.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he was fumbling under the seat. He brought out a coil of + rope. Throwing off poncho, coat, and waistcoat, he coiled the lengths + around his body. + </p> + <p> + “Let me swim with you,” she begged. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not strong enough.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care. We’d go together ... I—I can’t + face it alone, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have to. Or give up our only chance of life. You must, + Io. If I shouldn’t get across, you may try it; the chances of the + current might help you. But not until after you’re sure I haven’t + made it. You must wait.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said submissively. + </p> + <p> + “As soon as I get to shore, I’ll throw the rope across to you. + Listen for it. I’ll keep throwing until it strikes where you can get + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you the light.” + </p> + <p> + “That may help. Then you make fast under the forward seat of the + boat. Be sure it’s tight.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “Twitch three times on the rope to let me know when you’re + ready and shove out and upstream as strongly as you can.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you hold it against the current?” + </p> + <p> + “I must. If I do, you’ll drift around against the bank. If I + don’t—I’ll follow you.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Ban,” she implored. “Not you, too. There’s no + need—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll follow you,” said he. “Now, Io.” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her gently, stepped back, took a run and flung himself upward + and outward into the ravening current. + </p> + <p> + She saw a foaming thresh that melted into darkness.... + </p> + <p> + Time seemed to have stopped for her. She waited, waited, waited in a world + wherein only Death waited with her.... Ban was now limp and lifeless + somewhere far downstream, asprawl in the swiftness, rolling a pasty face + to the sky like that grisly wayfarer who had hailed them silently in the + upper reach of the river, a messenger and prophet of their fate. The + rising waters eddied about her feet. The boat stirred uneasily. + Mechanically she drew it back from the claim of the flood. A light blow + fell upon her cheek and neck. + </p> + <p> + It was the rope. + </p> + <p> + Instantly and intensely alive, Io tautened it and felt the jerk of Ban’s + signal. With expert hands she made it fast, shipped the oars, twitched the + cord thrice, and, venturing as far as she dared into the deluge, pushed + with all her force and threw herself over the stern. + </p> + <p> + The rope twanged and hummed like a gigantic bass-string. Io crawled to the + oars, felt the gunwale dip and right again, and, before she could take a + stroke, was pressed against the far bank. She clambered out and went to + Banneker, guiding herself by the light. His face, in the feeble glow, + shone, twisted in agony. He was shaking from head to foot. The other end + of the rope which had brought her to safety was knotted fast around his + waist.... So he would have followed, as he said! + </p> + <p> + Through Io’s queer, inconsequent brain flitted a grotesque + conjecture: what would the newspapers make of it if she had been found, + washed up on the river-bank, and the Manzanita agent of the Atkinson and + St. Philip Railroad Company drowned and haltered by a long tether to his + boat, near by? A sensational story!... + </p> + <p> + She went to Banneker, still helplessly shaking, and put her firm, slight + hands on his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, Ban,” she said soothingly. “We’re + out of it.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + “Arrived safe” was the laconic message delivered to Miss + Camilla Van Arsdale by Banneker’s substitute when, after a haggard + night, she rode over in the morning for news. + </p> + <p> + Banneker himself returned on the second noon, after much and roundabout + wayfaring. He had little to say of the night journey; nothing of the peril + escaped. Miss Welland had caught a morning train for the East. She was + none the worse for the adventurous trip. Camilla Van Arsdale, noting his + rapt expression and his absent, questing eyes, wondered what underlay such + reticence.... What had been the manner of their parting? + </p> + <p> + It had, indeed, been anti-climax. Both had been a little shy, a little + furtive. Each, perhaps feeling a mutual strain, wanted the parting over, + restlessly desiring the sedative of thought and quiet memory after that + stress. The desperate peril from which they had been saved seemed a lesser + crisis, leading from a greater and more significant one; leading to—what? + For his part Banneker was content to “breathe and wait.” When + they should meet again, it would be determined. How and when the encounter + might take place, he did not trouble himself to consider. The whole + universe was moulded and set for that event. Meantime the glory was about + him; he could remember, recall, repeat, interpret.... + </p> + <p> + For the hundredth time—or was it the thousandth?—he + reconstructed that last hour of theirs together in the station at + Miradero, waiting for the train. What had they said to each other? + Commonplaces, mostly, and at times with effort, as if they were making + conversation. They two! After that passionate and revealing moment between + life and death on the island. What should he have said to her? Begged her + to stay? On what basis? How could he?.... As the distant roar of the train + warned them that the time of parting was close, it was she who broke + through that strange restraint, turning upon him her old-time limpid and + resolute regard. + </p> + <p> + “Ban; promise me something.” + </p> + <p> + “Anything.” + </p> + <p> + “There may be a time coming for us when you won’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Understand what?” + </p> + <p> + “Me. Perhaps I shan’t understand myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll always understand yourself, Io.” + </p> + <p> + “If that comes—when that comes—Ban, there’s + something in the book, <i>our</i> book, that I’ve left you to read.” + </p> + <p> + “‘The Voices’?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’ve fastened the pages together so that you can’t + read it too soon.” + </p> + <p> + “When, then?” + </p> + <p> + “When I tell you ... No; not when I tell you. When—oh, when + you must! You’ll read it, and afterward, when you think of me, you’ll + think of that, too. Will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Always?” + </p> + <p> + “Always.” + </p> + <p> + “No matter what happens?” + </p> + <p> + “No matter what happens.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s like a litany.” She laughed tremulously.... + “Here’s the train. Good-bye, dear.” + </p> + <p> + He felt the tips of slender fingers on his temples, the light, swift + pressure of cold lips on his mouth.... While the train pulled out, she + stood on the rear platform, looking, looking. She was very still. All + motion, all expression seemed centered in the steady gaze which dwindled + away from him, became vague ... featureless ... vanished in a lurch of the + car. + </p> + <p> + Banneker, at home again, planted a garden of dreams, and lived in it, + mechanically acceptant of the outer world, resentful of any intrusion upon + that flowerful retreat. Even of Miss Van Arsdale’s. + </p> + <p> + Not for days thereafter did the Hunger come. It began as a little gnawing + doubt and disappointment. It grew to a devastating, ravening starvation of + the heart, for sign or sight or word of Io Welland. It drove him out of + his withered seclusion, to seek Miss Van Arsdale, in the hope of hearing + Io’s name spoken. But Miss Van Arsdale scarcely referred to Io. She + watched Banneker with unconcealed anxiety. + </p> + <p> + ... Why had there been no letter?... + </p> + <p> + Appeasement came in the form of a package addressed in her handwriting. + Avidly he opened it. It was the promised Bible, mailed from New York City. + On the fly-leaf was written “I.O.W. to E.B.”—nothing + more. He went through it page by page, seeking marked passages. There was + none. The doubt settled down on him again. The Hunger bit into him more + savagely. + </p> + <p> + ... Why didn’t she write? A word! Anything! + </p> + <p> + ... Had she written Miss Van Arsdale? + </p> + <p> + At first it was intolerable that he should be driven to ask about her from + any other person; about Io, who had clasped him in the Valley of the + Shadow, whose lips had made the imminence of death seem a light thing! The + Hunger drove him to it. + </p> + <p> + Yes; Miss Van Arsdale had heard. Io Welland was in New York, and well. + That was all. But Banneker felt an undermining reserve. + </p> + <p> + Long days of changeless sunlight on the desert, an intolerable glare. From + the doorway of the lonely station Banneker stared out over leagues of sand + and cactus, arid, sterile, hopeless, promiseless. Life was like that. Four + weeks now since Io had left him. And still, except for the Bible, no word + from her. No sign. Silence. + </p> + <p> + Why that? Anything but that! It was too unbearable to his helpless + masculine need of her. He could not understand it. He could not understand + anything. Except the Hunger. That he understood well enough now.... + </p> + <p> + At two o’clock of a savagely haunted night, Banneker staggered from + his cot. For weeks he had not known sleep otherwise than in fitful + passages. His brain was hot and blank. Although the room was pitch-dark, + he crossed it unerringly to a shelf and look down his revolver. Slipping + on overcoat and shoes, he dropped the weapon into his pocket and set out + up the railroad track. A half-mile he covered before turning into the + desert. There he wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, and after that + groped his way, guarding with a stick against the surrounding threat of + the cactus, for his eyes were tight closed. Still blind, he drew out the + pistol, gripped it by the barrel, and threw it, whirling high and far, + into the trackless waste. He passed on, feeling his uncertain way + patiently. + </p> + <p> + It took him a quarter of an hour to find the railroad track and set a sure + course for home, so effectually had he lost himself.... No chance of his + recovering that old friend. It had been whispering to him, in the + blackness of empty nights, counsels that were too persuasive. + </p> + <p> + Back in his room over the station he lighted the lamp and stood before the + few books which he kept with him there; among them Io’s Bible and + “The Undying Voices,” with the two pages still joined as her + fingers had left them. He was summoning his courage to face what might be + the final solution. When he must, she had said, he was to open and read. + Well ... he must. He could bear it no longer, the wordless uncertainty. He + lifted down the volume, gently parted the fastened pages and read. From + out the still, ordered lines, there rose to him the passionate cry of + protest and bereavement: + </p> + <p> + “............................Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of + my door Of individual life I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift + my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that + which I forbore—Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes + to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I + do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own + grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine And + sees within my eyes the tears of two.” + </p> + <p> + Over and over he read it with increasing bewilderment, with increasing + fear, with slow-developing comprehension. If that was to be her farewell + ... but why! Io, the straightforward, the intrepid, the exponent of fair + play and the rules of the game!... Had it been only a game? No; at least + he knew better than that. + </p> + <p> + What could it all mean? Why that medium for her message? Should he write + and ask her? But what was there to ask or say, in the face of her silence? + Besides, he had not even her address. Miss Camilla could doubtless give + him that. But would she? How much did she understand? Why had she turned + so unhelpful? + </p> + <p> + Banneker sat with his problem half through a searing night; and the other + half of the night he spent in writing. But not to Io. + </p> + <p> + At noon Camilla Van Arsdale rode up to the station. + </p> + <p> + “Are you ill, Ban?” was her greeting, as soon as she saw his + face. + </p> + <p> + “No, Miss Camilla. I’m going away.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, confirming not so much what he said as a fulfilled suspicion + of her own. “New York is a very big city,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t said that I was going to New York.” + </p> + <p> + “No; there is much you haven’t said.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t felt much like talking. Even to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t go, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got to. I’ve got to get away from here.” + </p> + <p> + “And your position with the railroad?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve resigned. It’s all arranged.” He pointed to + the pile of letters, his night’s work. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “How do I know! I beg your pardon, Miss Camilla. Write, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Write here.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing to write about.” + </p> + <p> + The exile, who had spent her years weaving exquisite music from the rhythm + of desert winds and the overtones of the forest silence, looked about her, + over the long, yellow-gray stretches pricked out with hints of brightness, + to the peaceful refuge of the pines, and again to the naked and impudent + meanness of the town. Across to her ears, borne on the air heavy with rain + still unshed, came the rollicking, ragging jangle of the piano at the Sick + Coyote. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t there people to write about there?” she said. + “Tragedies and comedies and the human drama? Barrie found it in a + duller place.” + </p> + <p> + “Not until he had seen the world first,” he retorted quickly. + “And I’m not a Barrie.... I can’t stay here, Miss + Camilla.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Ban! Youth is always expecting life to fulfill itself. It + doesn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “No; it doesn’t—unless you make it.” + </p> + <p> + “And how will you make it?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to get on a newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t so easy as all that, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been writing.” + </p> + <p> + In the joyous flush of energy, evoked under the spell of Io’s + enchantment, he had filled his spare hours with work, happy, exuberant, + overflowing with a quaint vitality. A description of the desert in spate, + thumb-nail sketches from a station-agent’s window, queer little + flavorous stories of crime and adventure and petty intrigue in the town; + all done with a deftness and brevity that was saved from being too abrupt + only by broad touches of color and light. And he had had a letter. He told + Miss Van Arsdale of it. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you’ve a promise, or even a fair expectation of a + place. But, Ban, I wouldn’t go to New York, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use.” + </p> + <p> + His strong eyebrows went up. “Use?” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t find her there.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s not in New York?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve heard from her, then? Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone abroad.” + </p> + <p> + Upon that he meditated. “She’ll come back, though.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to you.” + </p> + <p> + He waited, silent, attentive, incredulous. + </p> + <p> + “Ban; she’s married.” + </p> + <p> + “Married!” + </p> + <p> + The telegraph instrument clicked in the tiny rhythm of an elfin bass-drum. + “O.S. O.S.” Click. Click. Click-click-click. Mechanically + responsive to his office he answered, and for a moment was concerned with + some message about a local freight. When he raised his face again, Miss + Van Arsdale read there a sick and floundering skepticism. + </p> + <p> + “Married!” he repeated. “Io! She couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + The woman, startled by the conviction in his tone, wondered how much that + might imply. + </p> + <p> + “She wrote me,” said she presently. + </p> + <p> + “That she was married?” + </p> + <p> + “That she would be by the time the letter reached me.” + </p> + <p> + (“You will think me a fool,” the girl had written impetuously, + “and perhaps a cruel fool. But it is the wise thing, really. Del + Eyre is so safe! He is safety itself for a girl like me. And I have + discovered that I can’t wholly trust myself.... Be gentle with him, + and make him do something worth while.”) + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Ban. “But that—” + </p> + <p> + “And I have the newspaper since with an account of the wedding.... + Ban! Don’t look like that!” + </p> + <p> + “Like what?” said he stupidly. + </p> + <p> + “You look like Pretty Willie as I saw him when he was working + himself up for the killing.” Pretty Willie was the soft-eyed young + desperado who had cleaned out the Sick Coyote. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m not going to kill anybody,” he said with a + touch of grim amusement for her fears. “Not even myself.” He + rose and went to the door. “Do you mind, Miss Camilla?” he + added appealingly. + </p> + <p> + “You want me to leave you now?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. “I’ve got to think.” + </p> + <p> + “When would you leave, Ban, if you do go?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + On the following morning he went, after a night spent in arranging, + destroying, and burning. The last thing to go into the stove, 67 S 4230, + was a lock of hair, once glossy, but now stiffened and stained a dull + brown, which he had cut from the wound on Io’s head that first, + strange night of theirs, the stain of her blood that had beaten in her + heart, and given life to the sure, sweet motion of her limbs, and flushed + in her cheeks, and pulsed in the warm lips that she had pressed to his—Why + could they not have died together on their dissolving island, with the + night about them, and their last, failing sentience for each other! + </p> + <p> + The flame of the greedy stove licked up the memento, but not the memory. + </p> + <p> + “You must not worry about me,” he wrote in the note left with + his successor for Miss Van Arsdale. “I shall be all right. I am + going to succeed.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II—THE VISION + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Brashear’s rooming-house on Grove Street wore its air of + respectability like a garment, clean and somber, in an environment of + careful behavior. Greenwich Village, not having fully awakened to the + commercial advantages of being a <i>locale</i>, had not yet stretched + between itself and the rest of New York that gauzy and iridescent curtain + of sprightly impropriety and sparkling intellectual naughtiness, since + faded to a lather tawdry pattern. An early pioneer of the Villager type, + emancipated of thought and speech, chancing upon No. 11 Grove, would have + despised it for its lack of atmosphere and its patent conservatism. It did + not go out into the highways and byways, seeking prospective lodgers. It + folded its hands and waited placidly for them to come. When they came, it + pondered them with care, catechized them tactfully, and either rejected + them with courteous finality or admitted them on probation. Had it been + given to self-exploitation, it could have boasted that never had it + harbored a bug or a scandal within its doors. + </p> + <p> + Now, on this filmy-soft April day it was nonplussed. A type new to its + experience was applying for a room, and Mrs. Brashear, who was not only + the proprietress, but, as it were, the familiar spirit and incarnation of + the institution, sat peering near-sightedly and in some perturbation of + soul at the phenomenon. He was young, which was against him, and of a + winning directness of manner, which was in his favor, and extremely good + to look at, which was potential of complications, and encased in clothing + of an uncompromising cut and neutral pattern (to wit; No. 45 T 370, + “an ideal style for a young business man of affairs; neat, + impressive and dignified”), which was reassuring. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Banneker,” he had said, immediately the door was + opened to him. “Can I get a room here?” + </p> + <p> + “There is a room vacant,” admitted the spirit of the house + unwillingly. + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to see it.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he was mounting the stairs; she must, perforce, follow. On + the third floor she passed him and led the way to a small, morosely + papered front room, almost glaringly clean. + </p> + <p> + “All right, if I can have a work-table in it and if it isn’t + too much,” he said, after one comprehensive glance around. + </p> + <p> + “The price is five dollars a week.” + </p> + <p> + Had Banneker but known it, this was rather high. The Brashear + rooming-house charged for its cleanliness, physical and moral. “Can + I move in at once?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know you nor anything about you, Mr. Banneker,” + she replied, but not until they had descended the stairs and were in the + cool, dim parlor. At the moment of speaking, she raised a shade, as if to + help in the determination. + </p> + <p> + “Is that necessary? They didn’t ask me when I registered at + the hotel.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Brashear stared, then smiled. “A hotel is different. Where are + you stopping?” + </p> + <p> + “At the St. Denis.” + </p> + <p> + “A very nice place. Who directed you here?” + </p> + <p> + “No one. I strolled around until I found a street I liked, and + looked around until I found a house I liked. The card in the window—” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Well, Mr. Banneker, for the protection of the house I + must have references.” + </p> + <p> + “References? You mean letters from people?” + </p> + <p> + “Not necessarily. Just a name or two from whom I can make inquiries. + You have friends, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Your family—” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t any.” + </p> + <p> + “Then the people in the place where you work. What is your business, + by the way?” + </p> + <p> + “I expect to go on a newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + “Expect?” Mrs. Brashear stiffened in defense of the + institution. “You have no place yet?” + </p> + <p> + He answered not her question, but her doubt. “As far as that is + concerned, I’ll pay in advance.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t the financial consideration,” she began + loftily—“alone,” she added more honestly. “But to + take in a total stranger—” + </p> + <p> + Banneker leaned forward to her. “See here, Mrs. Brashear; there’s + nothing wrong about me. I don’t get drunk. I don’t smoke in + bed. I’m decent of habit and I’m clean. I’ve got money + enough to carry me. Couldn’t you take me on my say-so? Look me over.” + </p> + <p> + Though it was delivered with entire gravity, the speech provoked a tired + and struggling smile on the landlady’s plain features. She looked. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he queried pleasantly. “What do you think? Will + you take a chance?” + </p> + <p> + That suppressed motherliness which, embodying the unformulated desire to + look after and care for others, turns so many widows to taking lodgers, + found voice in Mrs. Brashear’s reply: + </p> + <p> + “You’ve had a spell of sickness, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, a little sharply. “Where did you get that + idea?” + </p> + <p> + “Your eyes look hot.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t been sleeping very well. That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “Too bad. You’ve had a loss, maybe,” she ventured + sympathetically. + </p> + <p> + “A loss? No.... Yes. You might call it a loss. You’ll take me, + then?” + </p> + <p> + “You can move in right away,” said Mrs. Brashear recklessly. + </p> + <p> + So the Brashear rooming-house took into its carefully guarded interior the + young and unknown Mr. Banneker—who had not been sleeping well. Nor + did he seem to be sleeping well in his new quarters, since his light was + to be seen glowing out upon the quiet street until long after midnight; + yet he was usually up betimes, often even before the moving spirit of the + house, herself. A full week had he been there before his fellow lodgers, + self-constituted into a Committee on Membership, took his case under + consideration in full session upon the front steps. None had had speech + with him, but it was known that he kept irregular hours. + </p> + <p> + “What’s his job: that’s what I’d like to know,” + demanded in a tone of challenge, young Wickert, a man of the world who + clerked in the decorative department of a near-by emporium. + </p> + <p> + “Newsboy, I guess,” said Lambert, the belated art-student of + thirty-odd with a grin. “He’s always got his arms full of + papers when he comes in.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Help-wanted ads,” suggested Wickert, who had suffered + experience in that will-o’-the-wisp chase. + </p> + <p> + “Then he hasn’t got a job,” deduced Mr. Hainer, a heavy + man of heavy voice and heavy manner, middle-aged, a small-salaried + accountant. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe he’s got money,” suggested Lambert. + </p> + <p> + “Or maybe he’s a dead beat; he looks on the queer,” + opined young Wickert. + </p> + <p> + “He has a very fine and sensitive face. I think he has been ill.” + The opinion came from a thin, quietly dressed woman of the early worn-out + period of life, who sat a little apart from the others. Young Wickert + started a sniff, but suppressed it, for Miss Westlake was held locally in + some degree of respect, as being “well-connected” and having + relatives who called on her in their own limousines, though seldom. + </p> + <p> + “Anybody know his name?” asked Lambert. + </p> + <p> + “Barnacle,” said young Wickert wittily. “Something like + that, anyway. Bannsocker, maybe. Guess he’s some sort of a Swede.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The worn face of the landlady, with its air of dispirited motherliness, + appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Banneker is a <i>gentleman</i>,” + she said. + </p> + <p> + “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. Hainer to support the discussion, which they did in tones less + discreet than the darkness warranted. + </p> + <p> + “Where would he hail from, would you think?” queried the + elder. “Iowa, maybe? Or Arkansas?” + </p> + <p> + “Search me,” answered young Wickert. “But it was a + small-town carpenter built those honest-to-Gawd clothes. I’d say the + corn-belt.” + </p> + <p> + “Dressed up for the monthly meeting of the Farmers’ Alliance, + all but the oil on his hair. He forgot that,” chuckled the + accountant. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + A voice from the darkened window above said, with composure, “That + will be all right. I’ll apply to you for advice.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Gee!” whispered young Wickert, in appeal to his + companion. “How long’s he been there?” + </p> + <p> + Acute hearing, it appeared, was an attribute of the man above, for he + answered at once: + </p> + <p> + “Just put my head out for a breath of air when I heard your kind + expressions of solicitude. Why? Did I miss something that came earlier?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hainer melted unostentatiously into the darkness. While young Wickert + was debating whether his pride would allow him to follow this prudent + example, the subject of their over-frank discussion appeared at his elbow. + Evidently he was as light of foot as he was quick of ear. Meditating + briefly upon these physical qualities, young Wickert said, in a + deprecatory tone: + </p> + <p> + “We didn’t mean to get fresh with you. It was just talk.” + </p> + <p> + “Very interesting talk.” + </p> + <p> + Wickert produced a suspiciously jeweled case. “Have a cigarette?” + </p> + <p> + “I have some of my own, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Give you a light?” + </p> + <p> + The metropolitan worldling struck a match and held it up. This was on the + order of strategy. He wished to see Banneker’s face. To his relief + it did not look angry or even stern. Rather, it appeared thoughtful. + Banneker was considering impartially the matter of his apparel. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter with my clothes?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why—well,” began Wickert, unhappy and fumbling with his + ideas; “Oh, <i>they</i>’re all right.” + </p> + <p> + “For a meeting of the Farmers’ Alliance.” Banneker was + smiling good-naturedly. “But for the East?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “They don’t look as if they were made in New York or for New + York?” + </p> + <p> + Young Mr. Wickert apportioned his voice equitably between a laugh and a + snort. “No: nor in Hoboken!” he retorted. “Listen, + ‘bo,” he added, after a moment’s thought. “You got + to have a smooth shell in Nuh Yawk. The human eye only sees the surface. + Get me? And it judges by the surface.” He smoothed his hands down + his dapper trunk with ineffable complacency. “Thirty-eight dollars, + this. Bernholz Brothers, around on Broadway. Look it over. That’s a + cut!” + </p> + <p> + “Is that how they’re making them in the East?” + doubtfully asked the neophyte, reflecting that the pinched-in snugness of + the coat, and the flare effect of the skirts, while unquestionably more + impressive than his own box-like garb, still lacked something of the quiet + distinction which he recalled in the clothes of Herbert Cressey. The + thought of that willing messenger set him to groping for another sartorial + name. He hardly heard Wickert say proudly: + </p> + <p> + “If Bernholz’s makes ’em that way, you can bet it’s + up to the split-second of date, and <i>maybe</i> 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. There’s the suit paid for in two + months and a pair of shoes over.” He thrust out a leg, from below + the sharp-pressed trouser-line of which protruded a boot trimmed in a sort + of bizarre fretwork. “Like me to take you around to Bernholz’s?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker shook his head. The name for which he sought had come to him. + “Did you ever hear of Mertoun, somewhere on Fifth Avenue?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And I’ve seen Central Park and the Statue of Liberty,” + railed the other. “Thinkin’ of patternizing Mertoun, was you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’d like to.” + </p> + <p> + “Like to! There’s a party at the Astorbilt’s to-morrow + night; you’d <i>like</i> to go to that, wouldn’t you? Fat + chance!” said the disdainful and seasoned cit. “D’you + know what Mertoun would do to you? Set you back a hundred simoleons soon + as look at you. And at that you got to have a letter of introduction like + gettin’ in to see the President of the United States or John D. + Rockefeller. Come off, my boy! Bernholz’s ‘ll fix you just as + good, all but the label. Better come around to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Much obliged, but I’m not buying yet. Where would you say a + fellow would have a chance to see the best-dressed men?” + </p> + <p> + Young Mr. 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 <i>think</i> they’re the + whole thing, walk up the Avenue and watch the doors of the clubs and the + swell restaurants. At that, they haven’t got anything on some + fellows that don’t spend a quarter of the money, but know what’s + what and don’t let grafters like Mertoun pull their legs,” + said he. “Say, you seem to know what you want, all right, all right,” + he added enviously. “You ain’t goin’ to let this little + old town bluff you; ay?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Not for lack of a few clothes. Good-night,” replied + Banneker, leaving in young Wickert’s mind the impression that he was + “a queer gink,” but also, on the whole, “a good guy.” + For the worldling was only small, not mean of spirit. + </p> + <p> + Banneker might have added that one who had once known cities and the + hearts of men from the viewpoint of that modern incarnation of Ulysses, + the hobo, contemptuous and predatory, was little likely to be overawed by + the most teeming and headlong of human ant-heaps. Having joined the + ant-heap, Banneker was shrewdly concerned with the problem of conforming + to the best type of termite discoverable. The gibes of the doorstep + chatterers had not aroused any new ambition; they had merely given point + to a purpose deferred because of other and more immediate pressure. + Already he had received from Camilla Van Arsdale a letter rich in + suggestion, hint, and subtly indicated advice, with this one passage of + frank counsel: + </p> + <p> + If I were writing, spinster-aunt-wise, to any one else in your position, I + should be tempted to moralize and issue warnings about—well, about + the things of the spirit. But you are equipped, there. Like the “Master,” + you will “go your own way with inevitable motion.” With the + outer man—that is different. You have never given much thought to + that phase. And you have an asset in your personal appearance. I should + not be telling you this if I thought there were danger of your becoming + vain. But I really think it would be a good investment for you to put + yourself into the hands of a first-class tailor, and follow his advice, in + moderation, of course. Get the sense of being fittingly turned out by + going where there are well-dressed people; to the opera, perhaps, and the + theater occasionally, and, when you can afford it, to a good restaurant. + Unless the world has changed, people will look at you. <i>But you must not + know it</i>. Important, this is!... I could, of course, give you letters + of introduction. “<i>Les morts vont vite</i>,” it is true, and + I am dead to that world, not wholly without the longings of a would-be <i>revenant</i>; + but a ghost may still claim some privileges of memory, and my friends + would be hospitable to you. Only, I strongly suspect that you would not + use the letters if I gave them. You prefer to make your own start; isn’t + it so? Well; I have written to a few. Sooner or later you will meet with + them. Those things always happen even in New York.... Be sure to write me + all about the job when you get it— + </p> + <p> + Prudence dictated that he should be earning something before he invested + in expensive apparel, be it never so desirable and important. However, he + would outfit himself just as soon as a regular earning capacity justified + his going into his carefully husbanded but dwindling savings. He pictured + himself clad as a lily of the field, unconscious of perfection as Herbert + Cressey himself, in the public haunts of fashion and ease; through which + vision there rose the searing prospect of thus encountering Io Welland. + What was her married name? He had not even asked when the news was broken + to him; had not wanted to ask; was done with all that for all time. + </p> + <p> + He was still pathetically young and inexperienced. And he had been badly + hurt. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + Dust was the conspicuous attribute of the place. It lay, flat and + toneless, upon the desk, the chairs, the floor; it streaked the walls. The + semi-consumptive office “boy’s” middle-aged shoulders + collected it. It stirred in the wake of quiet-moving men, mostly under + thirty-five, who entered the outer door, passed through the waiting-room, + and disappeared behind a partition. Banneker felt like shaking himself + lest he should be eventually buried under its impalpable sifting. Two + hours and a half had passed since he had sent in his name on a slip of + paper, to Mr. Gordon, managing editor of the paper. On the way across Park + Row he had all but been persuaded by a lightning printer on the curb to + have a dozen tasty and elegant visiting-cards struck off, for a quarter; + but some vague inhibition of good taste checked him. Now he wondered if a + card would have served better. + </p> + <p> + While he waited, he checked up the actuality of a metropolitan newspaper + entrance-room, as contrasted with his notion of it, derived from motion + pictures. Here was none of the bustle and hurry of the screen. No brisk + and earnest young figures with tense eyes and protruding notebooks darted + feverishly in and out; nor, in the course of his long wait, had he seen so + much as one specimen of that invariable concomitant of all screen + journalism, the long-haired poet with his flowing tie and neatly ribboned + manuscript. Even the office “boy,” lethargic, neutrally + polite, busy writing on half-sheets of paper, was profoundly untrue to the + pictured type. Banneker wondered what the managing editor would be like; + would almost, in the wreckage of his preconceived notions, have accepted a + woman or a priest in that manifestation, when Mr. Gordon appeared and was + addressed by name by the hollow-chested Cerberus. Banneker at once echoed + the name, rising. + </p> + <p> + The managing editor, a tall, heavy man, whose smoothly fitting cutaway + coat seemed miraculously to have escaped the plague of dust, stared at him + above heavy glasses. + </p> + <p> + “You want to see me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I sent in my name.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you? When?” + </p> + <p> + “At two-forty-seven, thirty,” replied the visitor with + railroad accuracy. + </p> + <p> + The look above the lowered glasses became slightly quizzical. “You’re + exact, at least. Patient, too. Good qualities for a newspaper man. That’s + what you are?” + </p> + <p> + “What I’m going to be,” amended Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “There is no opening here at present.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s formula, isn’t it?” asked the young man, + smiling. + </p> + <p> + The other stared. “It is. But how do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the tone, I suppose. I’ve had to use it a good + deal myself, in railroading.” + </p> + <p> + “Observant, as well as exact and patient. Come in. I’m sorry I + misplaced your card. The name is—?” + </p> + <p> + “Banneker, E. Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + Following the editor, he passed through a large, low-ceilinged room, + filled with desk-tables, each bearing a heavy crystal ink-well full of a + fluid of particularly virulent purple. A short figure, impassive as a + Mongol, sat at a corner desk, gazing out over City Hall Park with a rapt + gaze. Across from him a curiously trim and graceful man, with a strong + touch of the Hibernian in his elongated jaw and humorous gray eyes, + clipped the early evening editions with an effect of highly judicious + selection. Only one person sat in all the long files of the work-tables, + littered with copy-paper and disarranged newspapers; a dark young giant + with the discouraged and hurt look of a boy kept in after school. All this + Banneker took in while the managing editor was disposing, usually with a + single penciled word or number, of a sheaf of telegraphic “queries” + left upon his desk. Having finished, he swiveled in his chair, to face + Banneker, and, as he spoke, kept bouncing the thin point of a + letter-opener from the knuckles of his left hand. His hands were fat and + nervous. + </p> + <p> + “So you want to do newspaper work?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I can make a go of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Any experience?” + </p> + <p> + “None to speak of. I’ve written a few things. I thought you + might remember my name.” + </p> + <p> + “Your name? Banneker? No. Why should I?” + </p> + <p> + “You published some of my things in the Sunday edition, lately. From + Manzanita, California.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I don’t think so. Mr. Homans.” A graying man with + the gait of a marionnette and the precise expression of a rocking-horse, + who had just entered, crossed over. “Have we sent out any checks to + a Mr. Banneker recently, in California?” + </p> + <p> + The new arrival, who was copy-reader and editorial selecter for the Sunday + edition, repeated the name in just such a wooden voice as was to be + expected. “No,” he said positively. + </p> + <p> + “But I’ve cashed the checks,” returned Banneker, annoyed + and bewildered. “And I’ve seen the clipping of the article in + the Sunday Sphere of—” + </p> + <p> + “Just a moment. You’re not in The Sphere office. Did you think + you were? Some one has directed you wrong. This is The Ledger.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Banneker. “It was a policeman that pointed it + out. I suppose I saw wrong.” He paused; then looked up ingenuously. + “But, anyway, I’d rather be on The Ledger.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gordon smiled broadly, the thin blade poised over a plump, reddened + knuckle. + </p> + <p> + “Would you! Now, why?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been reading it. I like the way it does things.” + </p> + <p> + The editor laughed outright. “If you didn’t look so honest, I + would think that somebody of experience had been tutoring you. How many + other places have you tried?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + “You were going to The Sphere first? On the promise of a job?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Because they printed what I wrote.” + </p> + <p> + “The Sphere’s ways are not our ways,” pronounced Mr. + Gordon primly. “It’s a fundamental difference in standards.” + </p> + <p> + “I can see that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you can, can you?” chuckled the other. “But it’s + true that we have no opening here.” + </p> + <p> + (The Ledger never did have an “opening”; but it managed to + wedge in a goodly number of neophytes, from year to year, ninety per cent + of whom were automatically and courteously ejected after due trial. Mr. + Gordon performed a surpassing rataplan upon his long-suffering thumb-joint + and wondered if this queer and direct being might qualify among the + redeemable ten per cent.) + </p> + <p> + “I can wait.” (They often said that.) “For a while,” + added the youth thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “How long have you been in New York?” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty-three days.” + </p> + <p> + “And what have you been doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Reading newspapers.” + </p> + <p> + “No! Reading—That’s rather surprising. All of them?” + </p> + <p> + “All that I could manage.” + </p> + <p> + “Some were so bad that you couldn’t worry through them, eh?” + asked the other with appreciation. + </p> + <p> + “Not that. But I didn’t know the foreign languages except + French, and Spanish, and a little Italian.” + </p> + <p> + “The foreign-language press, too. Remarkable!” murmured the + other. “Do you mind telling me what your idea was?” + </p> + <p> + “It was simple enough. As I wanted to get on a newspaper, I thought + I ought to find out what newspapers were made of.” + </p> + <p> + “Simple, as you say. Beautifully simple! So you’ve devised for + yourself the little job of perfecting yourself in every department of + journalism; politics, finances, criminal, sports, society; all of them, + eh?” + </p> + <p> + “No; not all,” replied Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Not? What have you left out?” + </p> + <p> + “Society news” was the answer, delivered less promptly than + the other replies. + </p> + <p> + Bestowing a twinkle of mingled amusement and conjecture upon the applicant’s + clothing, Mr. Gordon said: + </p> + <p> + “You don’t approve of our social records? Or you’re not + interested? Or why is it that you neglect this popular branch?” + </p> + <p> + “Personal reasons.” + </p> + <p> + This reply, which took the managing editor somewhat aback, was accurate if + not explanatory. Miss Van Arsdale’s commentaries upon Gardner and + his quest had inspired Banneker with a contemptuous distaste for this type + of journalism. But chiefly he had shunned the society columns from dread + of finding there some mention of her who had been Io Welland. He was + resolved to conquer and evict that memory; he would not consciously put + himself in the way of anything that recalled it. + </p> + <p> + “Hum! And this notion of making an intensive study of the papers; + was that original with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no, not entirely. I got it from a man who made himself a bank + president in seven years.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes? How did he do that?” + </p> + <p> + “He started by reading everything he could find about money and + coinage and stocks and bonds and other financial paper. He told me that it + was incredible the things that financial experts didn’t know about + their own business—the deep-down things—and that he guessed it + was so with any business. He got on top by really knowing the things that + everybody was supposed to know.” + </p> + <p> + “A sound theory, I dare say. Most financiers aren’t so + revealing.” + </p> + <p> + “He and I were padding the hoof together. We were both hoboes then.” + </p> + <p> + The managing editor looked up, alert, from his knuckle-tapping. “From + bank president to hobo. Was his bank an important one?” + </p> + <p> + “The biggest in a medium-sized city.” + </p> + <p> + “And does that suggest nothing to you, as a prospective newspaper + man?” + </p> + <p> + “What? Write him up?” + </p> + <p> + “It would make a fairly sensational story.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t do that. He was my friend. He wouldn’t like + it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gordon addressed his wedding-ring finger which was looking a bit + scarified. “Such an article as that, properly done, would go a long + way toward getting you a chance on this paper—Sit down, Mr. + Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “You and I,” said Banneker slowly and in the manner of the + West, “can’t deal.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we can.” The managing editor threw his steel blade on + the desk. “Sit down, I tell you. And understand this. If you come on + this paper—I’m going to turn you over to Mr. Greenough, the + city editor, with a request that he give you a trial—you’ll be + expected to subordinate every personal interest and advantage to the + interests and advantages of the paper, <i>except</i> your sense of honor + and fair-play. We don’t ask you to give that up; and if you do give + it up, we don’t want you at all. What have you done besides be a + hobo?” + </p> + <p> + “Railroading. Station-agent.” + </p> + <p> + “Where were you educated?” + </p> + <p> + “Nowhere. Wherever I could pick it up.” + </p> + <p> + “Which means everywhere. Ever read George Borrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The heavy face of Mr. Gordon lighted up. “Ree-markable! Keep on. He’s + a good offset to—to the daily papers. Writing still counts, on The + Ledger. Come over and meet Mr. Greenough.” + </p> + <p> + The city editor unobtrusively studied Banneker out of placid, inscrutable + eyes, soft as a dove’s, while he chatted at large about theaters, + politics, the news of the day. Afterward the applicant met the Celtic + assistant, Mr. Mallory, who broadly outlined for him the technique of the + office. With no further preliminaries Banneker found himself employed at + fifteen dollars a week, with Monday for his day off and directions to + report on the first of the month. + </p> + <p> + As the day-desk staff was about departing at six o’clock, Mr. Gordon + sauntered over to the city desk looking mildly apologetic. + </p> + <p> + “I practically had to take that young desert antelope on,” + said he. + </p> + <p> + “Too ingenuous to turn down,” surmised the city editor. + </p> + <p> + “Ingenuous! He’s heir to the wisdom of the ages. And now I’m + afraid I’ve made a ghastly mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “Something wrong with him?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had his stuff in the Sunday Sphere looked up.” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty weird?” put in Mallory, gliding into his beautifully + fitting overcoat. + </p> + <p> + “So damned good that I don’t see how The Sphere ever came to + take it. Greenough, you’ll have to find some pretext for firing that + young phenomenon as soon as possible.” + </p> + <p> + Perfectly comprehending his superior’s mode of indirect expression + the city editor replied: + </p> + <p> + “You think so highly of him as that?” + </p> + <p> + “Not one of our jobs will be safe from him if he once gets his foot + planted,” prophesied the other with mock ruefulness. “Do you + know,” he added, “I never even asked him for a reference.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t need to,” pronounced Mallory, shaking the + last wrinkle out of himself and lighting the cigarette of departure. + “He’s got it in his face, if I’m any judge.” + </p> + <p> + Highly elate, Banneker walked on springy pavements all the way to Grove + Street. Fifteen a week! He could live on that. His other income and + savings could be devoted to carrying out Miss Camilla’s advice. For + he need not save any more. He would go ahead, fast, now that he had got + his start. How easy it had been. + </p> + <p> + Entering the Brashear door, he met plain, middle-aged little Miss + Westlake. A muffler was pressed to her jaw. He recalled having heard her + moving about her room, the cheapest and least desirable in the house, and + groaning softly late in the night; also having heard some lodgers say that + she was a typist with very little work. Obviously she needed a dentist, + and presumably she had not the money to pay his fee. In the exultation of + his good luck, Banneker felt a stir of helpfulness toward this helpless + person. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said he. “How do you do! Could you find time to do + some typing for me quite soon?” + </p> + <p> + It was said impulsively and was followed by a surge of dismay. Typing? + Type what? He had absolutely nothing on hand! + </p> + <p> + Well, he must get up something. At once. 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + Ten days’ leeway before entering upon the new work. To which of + scores of crowding purposes could Banneker best put the time? In his + offhand way the instructive Mallory had suggested that he familiarize + himself with the topography and travel-routes of the Island of Manhattan. + Indefatigably he set about doing this; wandering from water-front to + water-front, invading tenements, eating at queer, Englishless restaurants, + picking up chance acquaintance with chauffeurs, peddlers, street-fakers, + park-bench loiterers; all that drifting and iridescent scum of life which + variegates the surface above the depths. Everywhere he was accepted + without question, for his old experience on the hoof had given him the + uncoded password which loosens the speech of furtive men and wise. A + receptivity, sensitized to a high degree by the inspiration of new + adventure, absorbed these impressions. The faithful pocket-ledger was + filling rapidly with notes and phrases, brisk and trenchant, set down with + no specific purpose; almost mechanically, in fact, but destined to future + uses. Mallory, himself no mean connoisseur of the tumultuous and flagrant + city, would perhaps have found matter foreign to his expert apprehension + could he have seen and translated the pages of 3 T 9901. + </p> + <p> + Banneker would go forward in the fascinating paths of exploration; but + there were other considerations. + </p> + <p> + The outer man, for example. The inner man, too; the conscious inner man + strengthened upon the strong milk of the philosophers, the priests, and + the prophets so strangely mingled in that library now stored with Camilla + Van Arsdale; exhilarated by the honey-dew of “The Undying Voices,” + of Keats and Shelley, and of Swinburne’s supernal rhythms, which he + had brought with him. One visit to the Public Library had quite appalled + him; the vast, chill orderliness of it. He had gone there, hungry to chat + about books! To the Public Library! Surely a Homeric joke for grim, tomish + officialdom. 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? + </p> + <p> + Watch the clubs, young Wickert had advised. Banneker strolled up Fifth + Avenue, branching off here and there, into the more promising side + streets. + </p> + <p> + It was the hour of the First Thirst; the institutions which cater to this + and subsequent thirsts drew steadily from the main stream of human + activity flowing past. Many gloriously clad specimens passed in and out of + the portals, socially sacred as in the quiet Fifth Avenue clubs, profane + as in the roaring, taxi-bordered “athletic” foundations; but + there seemed to the anxious observer no keynote, no homogeneous character + wherefrom to build as on a sure foundation. Lacking knowledge, his + instinct could find no starting-point; he was bewildered in vision and in + mind. Just off the corner of the quietest of the Forties, he met a group + of four young men, walking compactly by twos. The one nearest him in the + second line was Herbert Cressey. His heavy and rather dull eye seemed to + meet Banneker’s as they came abreast. Banneker nodded, half checking + himself in his slow walk. + </p> + <p> + “How are you?” he said with an accent of surprise and + pleasure. + </p> + <p> + Cressey’s expressionless face turned a little. There was no response + in kind to Banneker’s smile. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! H’ware you!” said he vaguely, and passed on. + </p> + <p> + Banneker advanced mechanically until he reached the corner. There he + stopped. His color had heightened. The smile was still on his lips; it had + altered, taken on a quality of gameness. He did not shake his fist at the + embodied spirit of metropolitanism before him, as had a famous Gallic + precursor of his, also a determined seeker for Success in a lesser sphere; + but he paraphrased Rastignac’s threat in his own terms. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I’ll have to lick this town and lick it good before + it learns to be friendly.” + </p> + <p> + A hand fell on his arm. He turned to face Cressey. + </p> + <p> + “You’re the feller that bossed the wreck out there in the + desert, aren’t you? You’re—lessee—Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “I am.” The tone was curt. + </p> + <p> + “Awfully sorry I didn’t spot you at once.” Cressey’s + genuineness was a sufficient apology. “I’m a little stuffy + to-day. Bachelor dinner last night. What are you doing here? Looking + around?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m living here.” + </p> + <p> + “That so? So am I. Come into my club and let’s talk. I’m + glad to see you, Mr. Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + Even had Banneker been prone to self-consciousness, which he was not, the + extreme, almost monastic plainness of the small, neutral-fronted building + to which the other led him would have set him at ease. It gave no inkling + of its unique exclusiveness, and equally unique expensiveness. As for + Cressey, that simple, direct, and confident soul took not the smallest + account of Banneker’s standardized clothing, which made him almost + as conspicuous in that environment as if he had entered clad in a wooden + packing-case. Cressey’s creed in such matters was complete; any + friend of his was good enough for any environment to which he might + introduce him, and any other friend who took exceptions might go farther! + </p> + <p> + “Banzai!” said the cheerful host over his cocktail. “Welcome + to our city. Hope you like it.” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” said Banneker, lifting his glass in response. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you living?” + </p> + <p> + “Grove Street.” + </p> + <p> + Cressey knit his brows. “Where’s that? Harlem?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Over west of Sixth Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + “Queer kind of place to live, ain’t it? There’s a corkin’ + little suite vacant over at the Regalton. Cheap at the money. + Oh!-er-I-er-maybe—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; that’s it,” smiled Banneker. “The treasury + isn’t up to bachelor suites, yet awhile. I’ve only just got a + job.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Newspaper work. The Morning Ledger.” + </p> + <p> + “Reporting?” A dubious expression clouded the candid + cheerfulness of the other’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What’s the matter with that?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh; I dunno. It’s a piffling sort of job, ain’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Piffling? How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I supposed you had to ask a lot of questions and pry into + other people’s business and—and all that sorta thing.” + </p> + <p> + “If nobody asked questions,” pointed out Banneker, remembering + Gardner’s resolute devotion to his professional ideals, “there + wouldn’t be any news, would there?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure! That’s right,” agreed the gilded youth. “The + Ledger’s the decentest paper in town, too. It’s a gentleman’s + paper. I know a feller on it; Guy Mallory; was in my class at college. + Give you a letter to him if you like.” + </p> + <p> + Informed that Banneker already knew Mr. Mallory, his host expressed the + hope of being useful to him in any other possible manner—“any + tips I can give you or anything of that sort, old chap?”—so + heartily that the newcomer broached the subject of clothes. + </p> + <p> + “Nothin’ easier,” was the ready response. “I’ll + take you right down to Mertoun. Just one more and we’re off.” + </p> + <p> + The one more having been disposed of: “What is it you want?” + inquired Cressey, when they were settled in the taxi which was waiting at + the club door for them. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what <i>do</i> I want? You tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “How far do you want to go? Will five hundred be too much?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Cressey lost himself in mental calculations out of which he presently + delivered himself to this effect: + </p> + <p> + “Evening clothes, of course. And a dinner-jacket suit. Two business + suits, a light and a dark. You won’t need a morning coat, I expect, + for a while. Anyway, we’ve got to save somethin’ out for + shirts and boots, haven’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the money with me” remarked Banneker, his + innocent mind on the cash-with-order policy of Sears-Roebuck. + </p> + <p> + “Now, see here,” said Cressey, good-humoredly, yet with an + effect of authority. “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.” + </p> + <p> + “When do I pay, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, in three or four months he sends around a bill. That’s + more of a reminder to come in and order your fall outfit than it is + anything else. But you can send him a check on account, if you feel like + it.” + </p> + <p> + “A check?” repeated the neophyte blankly. “Must I have a + bank account?” + </p> + <p> + “Safer than a sock, my boy. And just as simple. To-morrow will do + for that, when we call on the shirt-makers and the shoe sharps. I’ll + put you in my bank; they’ll take you on for five hundred.” + </p> + <p> + Arrived at Mertoun’s, Banneker unobtrusively but positively + developed a taste of his own in the matter of hue and pattern; one, too, + which commanded Cressey’s respect. The gilded youth’s judgment + tended toward the more pronounced herringbones and homespuns. + </p> + <p> + “All right for you, who can change seven days in the week; but I’ve + got to live with these clothes, day in and day out,” argued + Banneker. + </p> + <p> + To which Cressey deferred, though with a sigh. “You could carry off + those sporty things as if they were woven to order for you,” he + declared. “You’ve got the figure, the carriage, the—the + whatever-the-devil it is, for it.” + </p> + <p> + Prospectively poorer by something more than four hundred dollars, Banneker + emerged from Mertoun’s with his mentor. + </p> + <p> + “Gotta get home and dress for a rotten dinner,” announced that + gentleman cheerfully. “Duck in here with me,” he invited, + indicating a sumptuous bar, near the tailor’s, “and get + another little kick in the stomach. No? Oh, verrawell. Where are you for?” + </p> + <p> + “The Public Library.” + </p> + <p> + “Gawd!” said his companion, honestly shocked. “That’s + a gloomy hole, ain’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so bad, when you get used to it. I’ve been putting in + three hours a day there lately.” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever for?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, browsing. Book-hungry, I suppose. Carnegie hasn’t + discovered Manzanita yet, you know; so I haven’t had many library + opportunities.” + </p> + <p> + “Speaking of Manzanita,” remarked Cressey, and spoke of it, + reminiscently and at length, as they walked along together. “Did the + lovely and mysterious I.O.W. ever turn up and report herself?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker’s breath caught painfully in his throat. + </p> + <p> + “D’you know who she was?” pursued the other, without + pause for reply to his previous question; and still without intermission + continued: “Io Welland. <i>That</i>’s who she was. Oh, but she’s + a hummer! I’ve met her since. Married, you know. Quick work, that + marriage. There was a dam’ queer story whispered around about her + starting to elope with some other chap, and his going nearly batty because + she didn’t turn up, and all the time she was wandering around in the + desert until somebody picked her up and took care of her. You ought to + know something of that. It was supposed to be right in your back-yard.” + </p> + <p> + “I?” said Banneker, commanding himself with an effort; “Miss + Welland reported in with a slight injury. That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + One glance at him told Cressey that Banneker did indeed “know + something” of the mysterious disappearance which had so exercised a + legion of busy tongues in New York; how much that something might be, he + preserved for future and private speculation, based on the astounding + perception that Banneker was in real pain of soul. Tact inspired Cressey + to say at once: “Of course, that’s all you had to consider. By + the way, you haven’t seen my revered uncle since you got here, have + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Vanney? No.” + </p> + <p> + “Better drop in on him.” + </p> + <p> + “He might try to give me another yellow-back,” smiled the + ex-agent. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t take Uncle Van for a fool. Once is plenty for him to be + hit on the nose.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he still got a green whisker?” + </p> + <p> + “Go and see. He’s asked about you two or three times in the + last coupla months.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’ve no errand with him.” + </p> + <p> + “How can you tell? He might start something for you. It isn’t + often that he keeps a man in mind like he has you. Anyway, he’s a + wise old bird and may hand you a pointer or two about what’s what in + New York. Shall I ‘phone him you’re in town?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’ll get in to see him some time to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Having made an appointment, in the vital matter of shirts and shoes, for + the morning, they parted. Banneker set to his browsing in the library + until hunger drove him forth. After dinner he returned to his room, + cumbered with the accumulation of evening papers, for study. + </p> + <p> + Beyond the thin partition he could hear Miss Westlake moving about and + humming happily to herself. The sound struck dismay to his soul. The + prospect of work from him was doubtless the insecure foundation of that + cheerfulness. “Soon” he had said; the implication was that the + matter was pressing. Probably she was counting on it for the morrow. Well, + he must furnish something, anything, to feed the maw of her hungry + typewriter; to fulfill that wistful hope which had sprung in her eyes when + he spoke to her. + </p> + <p> + Sweeping his table bare of the lore and lure of journalism as typified in + the bulky, black-faced editions, he set out clean paper, cleansed his + fountain pen, and stared at the ceiling. What should he write about? His + mental retina teemed with impressions. But they were confused, unresolved, + distorted for all that he knew, since he lacked experience and knowledge + of the environment, and therefore perspective. Groping, he recalled a + saying of Gardner’s as that wearied enthusiast descanted upon the + glories of past great names in metropolitan journalism. + </p> + <p> + “They used to say of Julian Ralph that he was always discovering + City Hall Park and getting excited over it; and when he got excited + enough, he wrote about it so that the public just ate it up.” + </p> + <p> + Well, he, Banneker, hadn’t discovered City Hall Park; not + consciously. But he had gleaned wonder and delight from other and more + remote spots, and now one of them began to stand forth upon the blank + ceiling at which he stared, seeking guidance. A crowded corner of Essex + Street, stewing in the hard sunshine. The teeming, shrill crowd. The + stench and gleam of a fish-stall offering bargains. The eager games of the + children, snatched between onsets of imminent peril as cart or truck came + whirling through and scattering the players. Finally the episode of the + trade fracas over the remains of a small and dubious weakfish, terminating + when the dissatisfied customer cast the delicacy at the head of the + stall-man and missed him, the <i>corpus delicti</i> falling into the + gutter where it was at once appropriated and rapt away by an incredulous, + delighted, and mangy cat. A crude, commonplace, malodorous little street + row, the sort of thing that happens, in varying phases, on a dozen + East-Side corners seven days in the week. + </p> + <p> + Banneker approached and treated the matter from the viewpoint of the cat, + predatory, philosophic, ecstatic. One o’clock in the morning saw the + final revision, for he had become enthralled with the handling of his + subject. It was only a scant five pages; less than a thousand words. But + as he wrote and rewrote, other schemata rose to the surface of his + consciousness, and he made brief notes of them on random ends of paper; + half a dozen of them, one crowding upon another. Some day, perhaps, when + there were enough of them, when he had become known, had achieved the + distinction of a signature like Gardner, there might be a real series.... + His vague expectancies were dimmed in weariness. + </p> + <p> + Such was the genesis of the “Local Vagrancies” which later + were to set Park Row speculating upon the signature “Eban.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + Accessibility was one of Mr. Horace Vanney’s fads. He aspired to be + a publicist, while sharing fallible humanity’s ignorance of just + what the vague and imposing term signifies; and, as a publicist, he + conceived it in character to be readily available to the public. Almost + anybody could get to see Mr. Vanney in his tasteful and dignified lower + Broadway offices, upon almost any reasonable or plausible errand. + Especially was he hospitable to the newspaper world, the agents of + publicity; and, such is the ingratitude of the fallen soul of man, every + newspaper office in the city fully comprehended his attitude, made use of + him as convenient, and professionally regarded him as a bit of a joke, + albeit a useful and amiable joke. Of this he had no inkling. Enough for + him that he was frequently, even habitually quoted, upon a wide range of + windy topics, often with his picture appended. + </p> + <p> + With far less difficulty than he had found in winning the notice of Mr. + Gordon, Banneker attained the sanctum of the capitalist. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well!” was the important man’s greeting as he + shook hands. “Our young friend from the desert! How do we find New + York?” + </p> + <p> + From Banneker’s reply, there grew out a pleasantly purposeless + conversation, which afforded the newcomer opportunity to decide that he + did not like this Mr. Vanney, sleek, smiling, gentle, and courteous, as + well as he had the brusque old tyrant of the wreck. That green-whiskered + autocrat had been at least natural, direct, and unselfish in his grim + emergency work. This manifestation seemed wary, cautious, on its guard to + defend itself against some probable tax upon its good nature. All this + unconscious, instinctive reckoning of the other man’s + characteristics gave to the young fellow an effect of poise, of judicious + balance and quiet confidence. It was one of Banneker’s elements of + strength, which subsequently won for him his unique place, that he was + always too much interested in estimating the man to whom he was talking, + to consider even what the other might think of him. It was at once a form + of egoism, and the total negation of egotism. It made him the least + self-conscious of human beings. And old Horace Vanney, pompous, vain, the + most self-conscious of his genus, felt, though he could not analyze, the + charm of it. + </p> + <p> + A chance word indicated that Banneker was already “placed.” At + once, though almost insensibly, the attitude of Mr. Vanney eased; + obviously there was no fear of his being “boned” for a job. At + the same time he experienced a mild misgiving lest he might be forfeiting + the services of one who could be really useful to him. Banneker’s + energy and decisiveness at the wreck had made a definite impression upon + him. But there was the matter of the rejected hundred-dollar tip. + Unpliant, evidently, this young fellow. Probably it was just as well that + he should be broken in to life and new standards elsewhere than in the + Vanney interests. Later, if he developed, watchfulness might show it to be + worth while to.... + </p> + <p> + “What is it that you have in mind, my boy?” inquired the + benign Mr. Vanney. + </p> + <p> + “I start in on The Ledger next month.” + </p> + <p> + “The Ledger! Indeed! I did not know that you had any journalistic + experience.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Well. Er—hum! Journalism, eh? A—er—brilliant + profession!” + </p> + <p> + “You think well of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I have many friends among the journalists. Fine fellows! Very fine + fellows.” + </p> + <p> + The instinctive tone of patronage was not lost upon Banneker. He felt + annoyed at Mr. Vanney. Unreasonably annoyed. “What’s the + matter with journalism?” he asked bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “The matter?” Mr. Vanney was blandly surprised. “Haven’t + I just said—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; you have. Would you let your son go into a newspaper office?” + </p> + <p> + “My son? My son chose the profession of law.” + </p> + <p> + “But if he had wanted to be a journalist?” + </p> + <p> + “Journalism does not perhaps offer the same opportunities for + personal advancement as some other lines,” said the financier + cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “It is largely anonymous.” Mr. Vanney gave the impression of + feeling carefully for his words. “One may go far in journalism and + yet be comparatively unknown to the public. Still, he might be of great + usefulness,” added the sage, brightening, “very great + usefulness. A sound, conservative, self-respecting newspaper such as The + Ledger, is a public benefactor.” + </p> + <p> + “And the editor of it?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s right, my boy,” approved the other. “Aim + high! Aim high! The great prizes in journalism are few. They are, in any + line of endeavor. And the apprenticeship is hard.” + </p> + <p> + Herbert Cressey’s clumsy but involuntary protest reasserted itself + in Banneker’s mind. “I wish you would tell me frankly, Mr. + Vanney, whether reporting is considered undignified and that sort of + thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Reporters can be a nuisance,” replied Mr. Vanney fervently. + “But they can also be very useful.” + </p> + <p> + “But on the whole—” + </p> + <p> + “On the whole it is a necessary apprenticeship. Very suitable for a + young man. Not a final career, in my judgment.” + </p> + <p> + “A reporter on The Ledger, then, is nothing but a reporter on The + Ledger.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t that enough, for a start?” smiled the other. + “The station-agent at—what was the name of your station? Yes, + Manzanita. The station-agent at Manzanita—” + </p> + <p> + “Was E. Banneker,” interposed the owner of that name + positively. “A small puddle, but the inhabitant was an individual + toad, at least. To keep one’s individuality in New York isn’t + so easy, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “There are quite a number of people in New York,” pointed out + the philosopher, Vanney. “Mostly crowd.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Banneker. “You’ve told me something + about the newspaper business that I wanted to know.” He rose. + </p> + <p> + The other put out an arresting hand. “Wouldn’t you like to do + a little reporting for me, before you take up your regular work?” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of reporting?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite simple. A manufacturing concern in which I own a considerable + interest has a strike on its hands. Suppose you go down to Sippiac, New + Jersey, where our factories are, spend three or four days, and report back + to me your impressions and any ideas you may gather as to improving our + organization for furthering our interests.” + </p> + <p> + “What makes you think that I could be useful in that line?” + asked Banneker curiously. + </p> + <p> + “My observations at the Manzanita wreck. You have, I believe, a + knack for handling a situation.” + </p> + <p> + “I can always try,” accepted Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Supplied with letters to the officials of the International Cloth Company, + and a liberal sum for expenses, the neophyte went to Sippiac. There he + visited the strongly guarded mills, still making a feeble pretense of + operating, talked with the harassed officials, the gang-boss of the + strike-breakers, the “private guards,” who had, in fact, + practically assumed dominant police authority in the place; all of which + was faithful to the programme arranged by Mr. Vanney. Having done so much, + he undertook to obtain a view of the strike from the other side; visited + the wretched tenements of the laborers, sought out the sullen and + distrustful strike-leaders, heard much fiery oratory and some veiled + threats from impassioned agitators, mostly foreign and all tragically + earnest; chatted with corner grocerymen, saloon-keepers, ward politicians, + composing his mental picture of a strike in a minor city, absolutely + controlled, industrially, politically, and socially by the industry which + had made it. The town, as he came to conceive it, was a fevered and + struggling gnome, bound to a wheel which ground for others; a gnome who, + if he broke his bonds, would be perhaps only the worse for his freedom. At + the beginning of the sixth day, for his stay had outgrown its original + plan, the pocket-ledger, 3 T 9901, was but little the richer, but the mind + of its owner teemed with impressions. + </p> + <p> + It was his purpose to take those impressions in person to Mr. Horace + Vanney, by the 10 A.M. train. Arriving at the station early, he was + surprised at being held up momentarily by a line of guards engaged in + blocking off a mob of wailing, jabbering women, many of whom had children + in their arms, or at their skirts. He asked the ticket-agent, a big, pasty + young man about them. + </p> + <p> + “Mill workers,” said the agent, making change. + </p> + <p> + “What are they after?” + </p> + <p> + “Wanta get to the 10.10 train.” + </p> + <p> + “And the guards are stopping them?” + </p> + <p> + “You can use your eyes, cantcha?” + </p> + <p> + Using his eyes, Banneker considered the position. “Are those fellows + on railroad property?” + </p> + <p> + “What is it to you whether they are or ain’t?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker explained his former occupation. “That’s different,” + said the agent. “Come inside. That’s a hell of a mess, ain’t + it!” he added plaintively as Banneker complied. “Some of those + poor Hunkies have got their tickets and can’t use ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d see that they got their train, if this was my station,” + asserted Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you would! With that gang of strong-arms against you.” + </p> + <p> + “Chase ’em,” advised Banneker simply. “They’ve + got no right keeping your passengers off your trains.” + </p> + <p> + “Chase ’em, ay? You’d do it, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “I would.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got a gun, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe you think those guys haven’t got guns, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, all I can say is, that if there had been passengers held up + from their trains at my station and I didn’t get them through, <i>I</i>’d + have been through so far as the Atkinson and St. Philip goes.” + </p> + <p> + “This railroad’s different. I’d be through if I butted + in on this mill row.” + </p> + <p> + “How’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, for one thing, old Vanney, who’s the real boss here, is + a director of the road.” + </p> + <p> + “So <i>that</i>’s it!” Banneker digested this + information. “Why are the women so anxious to get away?” + </p> + <p> + “They say”—the local agent lowered his voice—“their + children are starving here, and they can get better jobs in other places. + Naturally the mills don’t want to lose a lot of their hands, + particularly the women, because they’re the cheapest. I don’t + know as I blame ’em for that. But this business of hiring a bunch of + ex-cons and—Hey! Where are you goin’?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker was beyond the door before the query was completed. Looking out + of the window, the agent saw a fat and fussy young mother, who had + contrived to get through the line, waddling at her best speed across the + open toward the station, and dragging a small boy by the hand. A lank + giant from the guards’ ranks was after her. Screaming, she turned + the corner out of his vision. There were sounds which suggested a row at + the station-door, but the agent, called at that moment to the wire, could + not investigate. The train came and went, and he saw nothing more of the + ex-railroader from the West. + </p> + <p> + Although Mr. Horace Vanney smiled pleasantly enough when Banneker + presented himself at the office to make his report, the nature of the + smile suggested a background more uncertain. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what have you found, my boy?” the financier began. + </p> + <p> + “A good many things that ought to be changed,” answered + Banneker bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “Quite probably. No institution is perfect.” + </p> + <p> + “The mills are pretty rotten. You pay your people too little—” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you get that idea?” + </p> + <p> + “From the way they live.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy; if we paid them twice as much, they’d live the + same way. The surplus would go to the saloons.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why not wipe out the saloons?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not the Common Council of Sippiac,” returned Mr. Vanney + dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you?” retorted Banneker even more dryly. + </p> + <p> + The other frowned. “What else?” + </p> + <p> + “Well; the housing. You own a good many of the tenements, don’t + you?” + </p> + <p> + “The company owns some.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re filthy holes.” + </p> + <p> + “They are what the tenants make them.” + </p> + <p> + “The tenants didn’t build them with lightless hallways, did + they?” + </p> + <p> + “They needn’t live there if they don’t like them. Have + you spent all your time, for which I am paying, nosing about like a cheap + magazine muckraker?” It was clear that Mr. Vanney was annoyed. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been trying to find out what is wrong with Sippiac. I + thought you wanted facts.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. Facts. Not sentimental gushings.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there are your guards. There isn’t much sentiment about + them. I saw one of them smash a woman in the face, and knock her down, + while she was trying to catch a train and get out of town.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know exactly how much. But I hope enough to land him + in the hospital. They pulled me off too soon.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that you would have been killed if it hadn’t been + for some of the factory staff who saved you from the other guards—as + you deserved, for your foolhardiness?” + </p> + <p> + The young man’s eyebrows went up a bit. “Don’t bank too + much on my foolhardiness. I had a wall back of me. And there would have + been material for several funerals before they got me.” He touched + his hip-pocket. “By the way, you seem to be well informed.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been in ‘phone communication with Sippiac since + the regrettable occurrence. It perhaps didn’t occur to you to find + out that the woman, who is now under arrest, bit the guard very severely.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course! Just like the rabbit bit the bulldog. You’ve got a + lot of thugs and strong-arm men doing your dirty work, that ought to be in + jail. If the newspapers here ever get onto the situation, it would make + pretty rough reading for you, Mr. Vanney.” + </p> + <p> + The magnate looked at him with contemptuous amusement. “No newspaper + of decent standing prints that kind of socialistic stuff, my young friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not! Because of my position. Because the International Cloth + Company is a powerful institution of the most reputable standing, with + many lines of influence.” + </p> + <p> + “And that is enough to keep the newspapers from printing an article + about conditions in Sippiac?” asked Banneker, deeply interested in + this phase of the question. “Is that the fact?” + </p> + <p> + It was not the fact; The Sphere, for one, would have handled the strike on + the basis of news interest, as Mr. Vanney well knew; wherefore he hated + and pretended to despise The Sphere. But for his own purposes he answered: + </p> + <p> + “Not a paper in New York would touch it. Except,” he added + negligently, “perhaps some lying, Socialist sheet. And let me warn + you, Mr. Banneker,” he pursued in his suavest tone, “that you + will find no place for your peculiar ideas on The Ledger. In fact, I doubt + whether you will be doing well either by them or by yourself in going on + their staff, holding such views as you do.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you? Then I’ll tell them beforehand.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanney privately reflected that there was no need of this: <i>he</i> + intended to call up the editor-in-chief and suggest the unsuitability of + the candidate for a place, however humble, on the staff of a highly + respectable and suitably respectful daily. + </p> + <p> + Which he did. The message was passed on to Mr. Gordon, and, in his large + and tolerant soul, decently interred. One thing of which the managing + editor of The Ledger was not tolerant was interference from without in his + department. + </p> + <p> + Before allowing his man to leave, Mr. Vanney read him a long and + well-meant homily, full of warning and wisdom, and was both annoyed and + disheartened when, at the end of it, Banneker remarked: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll dare you to take a car and spend twenty-four hours going + about Sippiac with me. If you stand for your system after that, I’ll + pay for the car.” + </p> + <p> + To which the other replied sadly that Banneker had in some manner acquired + a false and distorted view of industrial relations. + </p> + <p> + Therein, for once in an existence guided almost exclusively by prejudice, + Horace Vanney was right. At the outset of a new career to which he was + attuning his mind, Banneker had been injected into a situation typical of + all that is worst in American industrial life, a local manufacturing + enterprise grown rich upon the labor of underpaid foreigners, through the + practice of all the vicious, lawless, and insidious methods of an ingrown + autocracy, and had believed it to be fairly representative. Had not Horace + Vanney, doubtless genuine in his belief, told him as much? + </p> + <p> + “We’re as fair and careful with our employees as any of our + competitors.” + </p> + <p> + As a matter of fact there were, even then, scores of manufacturing plants + within easy distance of New York, representing broad and generous policies + and conducted on a progressive and humanistic labor system. Had Banneker + had his first insight into local industrial conditions through one of + these, he might readily have been prejudiced in favor of capital. As it + was, swallowing Vanney’s statement as true, he mistook an evil + example as a fair indication of the general status. Then and there he + became a zealous protagonist of labor. + </p> + <p> + It had been Mr. Horace Vanney’s shrewd design to show a budding + journalist of promise on which side his self-interest lay. The weak spot + in the plan was that Banneker did not seem to care! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + Banneker’s induction into journalism was unimpressive. They gave him + a desk, an outfit of writing materials, a mail-box with his name on it, + and eventually an assignment. Mr. Mallory presented him to several of the + other “cubs” and two or three of the older and more important + reporters. They were all quite amiable, obviously willing to be helpful, + and they impressed the observant neophyte with that quiet and solid <i>esprit + de corps</i> which is based upon respect for work well performed in a + common cause. He apprehended that The Ledger office was in some sort an + institution. + </p> + <p> + None of his new acquaintances volunteered information as to the mechanism + of his new job. Apparently he was expected to figure that out for himself. + By nature reticent, and trained in an environment which still retained + enough of frontier etiquette to make a scrupulous incuriosity the + touchstone of good manners and perhaps the essence of self-preservation, + Banneker asked no questions. He sat and waited. + </p> + <p> + 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. He wondered whether he was expected + to sit tight at his desk. Or had he the freedom of the office? + Characteristically choosing the more active assumption, he found his way + to the current newspaper files. They were like old friends. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Banneker.” An office boy was at his elbow. “Mr. + Greenough wants you.” + </p> + <p> + Conscious of a quickened pulse, and annoyed at himself because of it, the + tyro advanced to receive his maiden assignment. The epochal event was + embodied in the form of a small clipping from an evening paper, stating + that a six-year-old boy had been fatally burned at a bonfire near the + North River. Banneker, Mr. Greenough instructed him mildly, was to make + inquiries of the police, of the boy’s family, of the hospital, and + of such witnesses as he could find. + </p> + <p> + Quick with interest he caught up his hat and hurried out. Death, in the + sparsely populated country wherefrom he hailed, was a matter of inclusive + local importance; he assumed the same of New York. Three intense hours he + devoted to an item which any police reporter of six months’ standing + would have rounded up in a brace of formal inquiries, and hastened back, + brimful of details for Mr. Greenough. + </p> + <p> + “Good! Good!” interpolated that blandly approving gentleman + from time to time in the course of the narrative. “Write it, Mr. + Banneker! write it.” + </p> + <p> + “How much shall I write?” + </p> + <p> + “Just what is necessary to tell the news.” + </p> + <p> + Behind the amiable smile which broadened without lighting up the + sub-Mongol physiognomy of the city editor, Banneker suspected something. + As he sat writing page after page, conscientiously setting forth every + germane fact, the recollection of that speculative, estimating smile began + to play over the sentences with a dire and blighting beam. Three fourths + of the way through, the writer rose, went to the file-board and ran + through a dozen newspapers. He was seeking a ratio, a perspective. He + wished to determine how much, in a news sense, the death of the son of an + obscure East-Side plasterer was worth. On his return he tore up all that + he had written, and substituted a curt paragraph, without character or + color, which he turned in. He had gauged the value of the tragedy + accurately, in the light of his study of news files. + </p> + <p> + Greenough showed the paragraph (which failed to appear at all in the + overcrowded paper of next morning) to Mr. Gordon. + </p> + <p> + “The new man doesn’t start well,” he remarked. “Too + little imaginative interest.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it knowledge rather than lack of interest?” + suggested the managing editor. + </p> + <p> + “It may come to the same thing. If he knows too much to get really + interested, he’ll be a dull reporter.” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt whether you’ll find him dull,” smiled Mr. + Gordon. “But he may find his job dull. In that case, of course he’d + better find another.” + </p> + <p> + Indeed, that was the danger which, for weeks to follow, Banneker skirted. + Police news, petty and formal, made up his day’s work. Had he sought + beneath the surface of it the underlying elements, and striven to express + these, his matter as it came to the desk, however slight the technical + news value might have been, would have afforded the watchful copy-readers, + trained to that special selectiveness as only The Ledger could train its + men, opportunity of judging what potentialities might lurk beneath the + crudities of the “cub.” But Banneker was not crude. He was + careful. His sense of the relative importance of news, acquired by those + weeks of intensive analysis before applying for his job, was too just to + let him give free play to his pen. What was the use? The “story” + wasn’t worth the space. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, 3 T 9901, which Banneker was already too cognoscent to + employ in his formal newsgathering (the notebook is anathema to the + metropolitan reporter), was filling up with odd bits, which were being + transferred, in the weary hours when the new man sat at his desk with + nothing to do, to paper in the form of sketches for Miss Westlake’s + trustful and waiting typewriter. Nobody could say that Banneker was not + industrious. Among his fellow reporters he soon acquired the melancholy + reputation of one who was forever writing “special stuff,” + none of which ever “landed.” It was chiefly because of his + industry and reliability, rather than any fulfillment of the earlier + promise of brilliant worth as shown in the Sunday Sphere articles, that he + got his first raise to twenty dollars. It surprised rather than gratified + him. + </p> + <p> + He went to Mr. Gordon about it. The managing editor was the kind of man + with whom it is easy to talk straight talk. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter with me?” asked Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gordon played a thoughtful tattoo upon his fleshy knuckles with the + letter-opener. “Nothing. Aren’t you satisfied?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Are you?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve had your raise, and fairly early. Unless you had been + worth it, you wouldn’t have had it.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I doing what you expected of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly. But you’re developing into a sure, reliable + reporter.” + </p> + <p> + “A routine man,” commented Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “After all, the routine man is the backbone of the office.” + Mr. Gordon executed a fantasia on his thumb. “Would you care to try + a desk job?” he asked, peering at Banneker over his glasses. + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather run a trolley car. There’s more life in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you <i>see</i> life, in your work, Mr. Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “See it? I feel it. Sometimes I think it’s going to flatten me + out like a steam-roller.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why not write it?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t news: not what I see.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not. Perhaps it’s something else. But if it’s + there and we can get a gleam of it into the paper, we’ll crowd news + out to make a place for it. You haven’t been reading The Ledger I’m + afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Like a Bible.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to good purpose, then. What do you think of Tommy Burt’s + stuff?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s funny; some of it. But I couldn’t do it to save my + job.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody can do it but Burt, himself. Possibly you could learn + something from it, though.” + </p> + <p> + “Burt doesn’t like it, himself. He told me it was all formula; + that you could always get a laugh out of people about something they’d + been taught to consider funny, like a red nose or a smashed hat. He’s + got a list of Sign Posts on the Road to Humor.” + </p> + <p> + “The cynicism of twenty-eight,” smiled the tolerant Mr. + Gordon. “Don’t let yourself be inoculated.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gordon,” said Banneker doggedly; “I’m not + doing the kind of work I expected to do here.” + </p> + <p> + “You can hardly expect the star jobs until you’ve made + yourself a star man.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker flushed. “I’m not complaining of the way I’ve + been treated. I’ve had a square enough deal. The trouble is with me. + I want to know whether I ought to stick or quit.” + </p> + <p> + “If you quit, what would you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t a notion,” replied the other with an + indifference which testified to a superb, instinctive self-confidence. + “Something.” + </p> + <p> + “Do it here. I think you’ll come along all right.” + </p> + <p> + “But what’s wrong with me?” persisted Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Too much restraint. A rare fault. You haven’t let yourself + out.” For a space he drummed and mused. Suddenly a knuckle cracked + loudly. Mr. Gordon flinched and glared at it, startled as if it had + offended him by interrupting a train of thought. “Here!” said + he brusquely. “There’s a Sewer-Cleaners’ Association + picnic to-morrow. They’re going to put in half their day inspecting + the Stimson Tunnel under the North River. Pretty idea; isn’t it? + Suppose I ask Mr. Greenough to send you out on the story. And I’d + like a look at it when you turn it in.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker worked hard on his report of the picnic; hard and + self-consciously. Tommy Burt would, he knew, have made a “scream” + of it, for tired business men to chuckle over on their way downtown. + Pursuant to what he believed Mr. Gordon wanted, Banneker strove + conscientiously to be funny with these human moles, who, having twelve + hours of freedom for sunshine and air, elected to spend half of it in a + hole bigger, deeper, and more oppressive than any to which their noisome + job called them. The result was five painfully mangled sheets which + presently went to the floor, torn in strips. After that Banneker reported + the picnic as he saw, felt, and smelt it. It was a somber bit of writing, + not without its subtleties and shrewd perceptions; quite unsuitable to the + columns of The Ledger, in which it failed to appear. But Mr. Gordon read + it twice. He advised Banneker not to be discouraged. + </p> + <p> + Banneker was deeply discouraged. He wanted to resign. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps he would nave resigned, if old Mynderse Verschoyle had not died at + eight o’clock on the morning of the day when Banneker was the + earliest man to report at the office. A picturesque character, old + Mynderse, who had lived for forty-five years with his childless wife in + the ancient house on West 10th Street, and for the final fifteen years had + not addressed so much as a word to her. She had died three months before; + and now he had followed, apparently, from what Banneker learned in an + interview with the upset and therefore voluble secretary of the dead man, + because, having no hatred left on which to center his life, he had nothing + else to live for. Banneker wrote the story of that hatred, rigid, + ceremonious, cherished like a rare virtue until it filled two lives; and + he threw about it the atmosphere of the drear and divided old house. At + the end, the sound of the laughter of children at play in the street. + </p> + <p> + The article appeared word for word as he had written it. That noon Tommy + Burt, the funny man, drawing down his hundred-plus a week on space, came + over and sat on Banneker’s desk, and swung his legs and looked at + him mournfully and said: + </p> + <p> + “You’ve broken through your shell at last.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you like it?” asked Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Like it! My God, if I could write like that! But what’s the + use! Never in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s nonsense,” returned Banneker, pleased. + “Of course you can. But what’s the rest of your ‘if’?” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t be wasting my time here. The magazines for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that better?” + </p> + <p> + “Depends on what you’re after. For a man who wants to write, + it’s better, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Gives him a larger audience. No newspaper story is remembered + overnight except by newspaper men. And they don’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t they matter?” Banneker was surprised again, + this time rather disagreeably. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a little world. There isn’t much substance to it. + Take that Verschoyle stuff of yours; that’s literature, that is! But + you’ll never hear of it again after next week. A few people here + will remember it, and it’ll help you to your next raise. But after + you’ve got that, and, after that, your lift onto space, where are + you?” + </p> + <p> + The abruptly confidential approach of Tommy Burt flattered Banneker with + the sense that by that one achievement of the Verschoyle story he had + attained a new status in the office. Later there came out from the inner + sanctum where sat the Big Chief, distilling venom and wit in equal parts + for the editorial page, a special word of approval. But this pleased the + recipient less than the praise of his peers in the city room. + </p> + <p> + After that first talk, Burt came back to Banneker’s desk from time + to time, and once took him to dinner at “Katie’s,” the + little German restaurant around the corner. Burt was given over to a + restless and inoffensively egoistic pessimism. + </p> + <p> + “Look at me. I’m twenty-eight and making a good income. When I + was twenty-three, I was making nearly as much. When I’m + thirty-eight, where shall I be?” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you keep on making it?” asked Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Doubtful. A fellow goes stale on the kind of stuff I do. And if I + do keep on? Five to six thousand is fine now. It won’t be so much + ten years from now. That’s the hell of this game; there’s no + real chance in it.” + </p> + <p> + “What about the editing jobs?” + </p> + <p> + “Desk-work? Chain yourself by the leg, with a blue pencil in your + hand to butcher better men’s stuff? A managing editor, now, I’ll + grant you. He gets his twenty or twenty-five thousand if he doesn’t + die of overstrain, first. But there’s only a few managing editors.” + </p> + <p> + “There are more editorial writers.” + </p> + <p> + “Hired pens. Dishing up other fellows’ policies, whether you + believe in ‘em or not. No; I’m not of that profession, anyway.” + He specified the profession, a highly ancient and dishonorable one. Mr. + Burt, in his gray moods, was neither discriminating nor quite just. + </p> + <p> + Banneker voiced the question which, at some point in his progress, every + thoughtful follower of journalism must meet and solve as best he can. + “When a man goes on a newspaper I suppose he more or less accepts + that paper’s standards, doesn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “More or less? To what extent?” countered the expert. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t figured that out, yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be in a hurry about it,” advised the other with a + gleam of malice. “The fellows that do figure it out to the end, and + are honest enough about it, usually quit.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t quit.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I’m not honest enough or perhaps I’m too + cowardly,” retorted the gloomy Burt. + </p> + <p> + Banneker smiled. Though the other was nearly two years his senior, he felt + immeasurably the elder. There is about the true reporter type an + infinitely youthful quality; attractive and touching; the eternal + juvenile, which, being once outgrown with its facile and evanescent + enthusiasms, leaves the expert declining into the hack. Beside this + prematurely weary example of a swift and precarious success, Banneker was + mature of character and standard. Nevertheless, the seasoned journalist + was steeped in knowledge which the tyro craved. + </p> + <p> + “What would you do,” Banneker asked, “if you were sent + out to write a story absolutely opposed to something you believed right; + political, for instance?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t write politics. That’s a specialty.” + </p> + <p> + “Who does?” + </p> + <p> + “‘Parson’ Gale.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he believe in everything The Ledger stands for?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. In office hours. For and in consideration of one hundred + and twenty-five dollars weekly, duly and regularly paid.” + </p> + <p> + “Outside of office hours, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah; that’s different. In Harlem where he lives, the Parson is + quite a figure among the reform Democrats. The Ledger, as you know, is + Republican; and anything in the way of reform is its favorite butt. So + Gale spends his working day poking fun at his political friends and + associates.” + </p> + <p> + “Out West we’d call that kind of fellow a yellow pup.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don’t call the Parson that; not to me,” warned + the other indignantly. “He’s as square a man as you’ll + find on Park Row. Why, you were just saying, yourself, that a reporter is + bound to accept his paper’s standards when he takes the job.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I suppose the answer is that a man ought to work only on a + newspaper in whose policies he believes.” + </p> + <p> + “Which policies? A newspaper has a hundred different ones about a + hundred different things. Here in this office we’re dead against the + split infinitive and the Honest Laboring Man. We don’t believe he’s + honest and we’ve got our grave doubts as to his laboring. Yet one of + our editorial writers is an out-and-out Socialist and makes fiery speeches + advising the proletariat to rise and grab the reins of government. But he’d + rather split his own head than an infinitive.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he write anti-labor editorials?” asked the bewildered + Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Not as bad as that. He confines himself to European politics and + popular scientific matters. But, of course, wherever there is necessity + for an expression of opinion, he’s anti-socialist in his writing, as + he’s bound to be.” + </p> + <p> + “Just a moment ago you were talking of hired pens. Now you seem to + be defending that sort of thing. I don’t understand your point of + view.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you? Neither do I, I guess,” admitted the + expositor with great candor. “I can argue it either way and convince + myself, so far as the other fellow’s work is concerned. But not for + my own.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you figure it out for yourself, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t. I dodge. It’s a kind of tacit arrangement + between the desk and me. In minor matters I go with the paper. That’s + easy, because I agree with it in most questions of taste and the way of + doing things. After all The Ledger <i>has</i> got certain standards of + professional conduct and of decent manners; it’s a gentleman’s + paper. The other things, the things where my beliefs conflict with the + paper’s standards, political or ethical, don’t come my way. + You see, I’m a specialist; I do mostly the fluffy stuff.” + </p> + <p> + “If that’s the way to keep out of embarrassing decisions, I’d + like to become a specialist myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You can do it, all right,” the other assured him earnestly. + “That story of yours shows it. You’ve got The Ledger touch—no, + it’s more individual than that. But you’ve got something that’s + going to stick out even here. Just the same, there’ll come a time + when you’ll have to face the other issue of your job or your—well, + your conscience.” + </p> + <p> + What Tommy Burt did not say in continuation, and had no need to say, since + his expressive and ingenuous face said it for him, was, “And I + wonder what you’ll do with <i>that</i>!” + </p> + <p> + A far more influential friend than Tommy Burt had been wondering, too, and + had, not without difficulty, expressed her doubts in writing. Camilla Van + Arsdale had written to Banneker: + </p> + <p> + ... I know so little of journalism, but there are things about it that I + distrust instinctively. Do you remember what that wrangler from the <i>Jon + Cal</i> told Old Bill Speed when Bill wanted to hire him: “I wouldn’t + take any job that I couldn’t look in the eye and tell it to go to + hell on five minutes’ notice.” I have a notion that you’ve + got to take that attitude toward a reporting job. There must be so much + that a man cannot do without loss of self-respect. Yet, I can’t + imagine why I should worry about you as to that. Unless it is that, in a + strange environment one gets one’s values confused.... Have you had + to do any “Society” reporting yet? I hope not. The society + reporters of my day were either obsequious little flunkeys and parasites, + or women of good connections but no money who capitalized their + acquaintanceship to make a poor living, and whom one was sorry for, but + would rather not see. Going to places where one is not asked, scavenging + for bits of news from butlers and housekeepers, sniffing after scandals—perhaps + that is part of the necessary apprenticeship of newspaper work. But it’s + not a proper work for a gentleman. And, in any case, Ban, you are that, by + the grace of your ancestral gods. + </p> + <p> + Little enough did Banneker care for his ancestral gods: but he did greatly + care for the maintenance of those standards which seemed to have grown, + indigenously within him, since he had never consciously formulated them. + As for reporting, of whatever kind, he deemed Miss Van Arsdale prejudiced. + Furthermore, he had met the society reporter of The Ledger, an elderly, + mild, inoffensive man, neat and industrious, and discerned in him no + stigma of the lickspittle. Nevertheless, he hoped that he would not be + assigned to such “society news” as Remington did not cover in + his routine. It might, he conceived, lead him into false situations where + he could be painfully snubbed. And he had never yet been in a position + where any one could snub him without instant reprisals. In such + circumstances he did not know exactly what he would do. However, that + bridge could be crossed or refused when he came to it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + Such members of the Brashear household as chose to accommodate themselves + strictly to the hour could have eight o’clock breakfast in the + basement dining-room for the modest consideration of thirty cents; + thirty-five with special cream-jug. At these gatherings, usually attended + by half a dozen of the lodgers, matters of local interest were weightily + discussed; such as the progress of the subway excavations, the + establishment of a new Italian restaurant in 11th Street, or the calling + away of the fourth-floor-rear by the death of an uncle who would perhaps + leave him money. To this sedate assemblage descended one crisp December + morning young Wickert, clad in the natty outline of a new Bernholz suit, + and obviously swollen with tidings. + </p> + <p> + “Whaddya know about the latest?” he flung forth upon the + coffee-scented air. + </p> + <p> + “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. Evidently Wickert deemed his news + to be of special import; he was quite bloated, conversationally. He now + dallied with it. + </p> + <p> + “Since when have you been taking in disguised millionaires, Mrs. + Brashear?” + </p> + <p> + The presiding genius of the house, divided between professional resentment + at even so remotely slurring an implication (for was not the Grove Street + house good enough for any millionaire, undisguised!) and human curiosity, + requested an explanation. + </p> + <p> + “I was in Sherry’s restaurant last night,” said the + offhand Wickert. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t read about any fire there,” said the jocose + Hainer, pointing his sally with a wink at Lambert, the art-student. + </p> + <p> + Wickert ignored the gibe. Such was the greatness of his tidings that he + could afford to. + </p> + <p> + “Our firm was giving a banquet to some buyers and big folks in the + trade. Private room upstairs; music, flowers, champagne by the case. We do + things in style when we do ’em. They sent me up after hours with an + important message to our Mr. Webler; he was in charge of arrangements.” + </p> + <p> + “Been promoted to be messenger, ay?” put in Mr. Hainer, + chuckling. + </p> + <p> + “When I came downstairs,” continued the other with only a + venomous glance toward the seat of the scorner, “I thought to myself + what’s the matter with taking a look at the swells feeding in the + big restaurant. You may not know it, people, but Sherry’s is the + ree-churchiest place in Nuh Yawk to eat dinner. It’s got ’em + all beat. So I stopped at the door and took ’em in. Swell? Oh, you + dolls! I stood there trying to work up the nerve to go in and siddown and + order a plate of stew or something that wouldn’t stick me more’n + a dollar, just to <i>say</i> I’d been dining at Sherry’s, when + I looked across the room, and whadda you think?” He paused, leaned + forward, and shot out the climactic word, “Banneker!” + </p> + <p> + “Having his dinner there?” asked the incredulous but + fascinated Mrs. Brashear. + </p> + <p> + “Like he owned the place. Table to himself, against the wall. Waiter + fussin’ over him like he loved him. And dressed! Oh, Gee!” + </p> + <p> + “Did you speak to him?” asked Lambert. + </p> + <p> + “He spoke to me,” answered Wickert, dealing in subtle + distinctions. “He was just finishing his coffee when I sighted him. + Gave the waiter haffa dollar. I could see it on the plate. There I was at + the door, and he said, ‘Why, hello, Wickert. Come and have a liquor.’ + He pronounced it a queer, Frenchy way. So I said thanks, I’d have a + highball.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t he seem surprised to see you there?” asked + Hainer. + </p> + <p> + Wickert paid an unconscious tribute to good-breeding. “Banneker’s + the kind of feller that wouldn’t show it if he was surprised. He + couldn’t have been as surprised as I was, at that. We went to the + bar and had a drink, and then I ast him what’d <i>he</i>, have on <i>me</i>, + and all the time I was sizing him up. I’m telling you, he looked + like he’d grown up in Sherry’s.” + </p> + <p> + The rest of the conversation, it appeared from Mr. Wickert’s + spirited sketch, had consisted mainly in eager queries from himself, and + good-humored replies by the other. + </p> + <p> + Did Banneker eat there every night? + </p> + <p> + Oh, no! He wasn’t up to that much of a strain on his finances. + </p> + <p> + But the waiters seemed to know him, as if he was one of the regulars. + </p> + <p> + In a sense he was. Every Monday he dined there. Monday was his day off. + </p> + <p> + Well, Mr. Wickert (awed and groping) <i>would</i> be damned! All alone? + </p> + <p> + Banneker, smiling, admitted the solitude. He rather liked dining alone. + </p> + <p> + Oh, Wickert couldn’t see that at all! Give him a pal and a coupla + lively girls, say from the Ladies’ Tailor-Made Department, + good-lookers and real dressers; that was <i>his</i> idea of a dinner, + though he’d never tried it at Sherry’s. Not that he couldn’t + if he felt like it. How much did they stick you for a good feed-out with a + cocktail and maybe a bottle of Italian Red? + </p> + <p> + Well, of course, that depended on which way was Wickert going? Could + Banneker set him on his way? He was taking a taxi to the Avon Theater, + where there was an opening. + </p> + <p> + Did Mr. Banneker (Wickert had by this time attained the “Mr.” + stage) always follow up his dinner at Sherry’s with a theater? + </p> + <p> + Usually, if there were an opening. If not he went to the opera or a + concert. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + No; of course he didn’t mind. Mertoun made it. + </p> + <p> + After which Mr. Banneker had been deftly enshrouded in a fur-lined coat, + worthy of a bank president, had crowned these glories with an impeccable + silk hat, and had set forth. 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 <i>pro rata</i> of the taxi charge. 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. + </p> + <p> + Nobody called Mr. Wickert a goat. But Mr. Hainer sniffed and said: + </p> + <p> + “And him a twenty-five-dollar-a-week reporter!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he has private means,” suggested little Miss + Westlake, who had her own reasons for suspecting this: reasons bolstered + by many and frequent manuscripts, turned over to her for typing, recast, + returned for retyping, and again, in many instances, re-recast and + re-retyped, the result of the sweating process being advantageous to their + literary quality. Simultaneous advantage had accrued to the typist, also, + in a practical way. Though the total of her bills was modest, it + constituted an important extra; and Miss Westlake no longer sought to find + solace for her woes through the prescription of the ambulant school of + philosophic thought, and to solve her dental difficulties by walking the + floor of nights. Philosophy never yet cured a toothache. Happily the + sufferer was now able to pay a dentist. Hence Banneker could work, + untroubled of her painful footsteps in the adjoining room, and considered + the outcome cheap at the price. He deemed himself an exponent of + enlightened selfishness. Perhaps he was. But the dim and worn spinster + would have given half a dozen of her best and painless teeth to be of + service to him. Now she came to his defense with a pretty dignity: + </p> + <p> + “I am sure that Mr. Banneker would not be out of place in any + company.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe not,” answered the cynical Lambert. “But where + does he get it? I ask you!” + </p> + <p> + “Wherever he gets it, no gentleman could be more forehanded in his + obligations,” declared Mrs. Brashear. + </p> + <p> + “But what’s he want to blow it for in a shirty place like + Sherry’s?” marveled young Wickert. + </p> + <p> + “Wyncha ask him?” brutally demanded Hainer. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Had any one questioned the subject of the discussion at Mrs. Brashear’s + on this point, even if he were willing to reply to impertinent + interrogations (a high improbability of which even the hardy Wickert seems + to have had some timely premonition), he would perhaps have explained the + glorified routine of his day-off, by saying that he went to Sherry’s + and the opening nights for the same reason that he prowled about the + water-front and ate in polyglot restaurants on obscure street-corners east + of Tompkins Square; to observe men and women and the manner of their + lives. It would not have been a sufficient answer; Banneker must have + admitted that to himself. Too much a man of the world in many strata not + to be adjustable to any of them, nevertheless he felt more attuned to and + at one with his environment amidst the suave formalism of Sherry’s + than in the more uneasy and precarious elegancies of an East-Side Tammany + Association promenade and ball. + </p> + <p> + Some of the youngsters of The Ledger said that he was climbing. + </p> + <p> + He was not climbing. To climb one must be conscious of an ascent to be + surmounted. Banneker was serenely unaware of anything above him, in that + sense. Eminent psychiatrists were, about that time, working upon the + beginning of a theory of the soul, later to be imposed upon an + impressionable and faddish world, which dealt with a profound psychical + deficit known as a “complex of inferiority.” In Banneker they + would have found sterile soil. He had no complex of inferiority, nor, for + that matter, of superiority; mental attitudes which, applied to social + status, breed respectively the toady and the snob. He had no complex at + all. He had, or would have had, if the soul-analysts had invented such a + thing, a simplex. Relative status was a matter to which he gave little + thought. He maintained personal standards not because of what others might + think of him, but because he chose to think well of himself. + </p> + <p> + Sherry’s and a fifth-row-center seat at opening nights meant to him + something more than refreshment and amusement; they were an assertion of + his right to certain things, a right of which, whether others recognized + or ignored it, he felt absolutely assured. These were the readily + attainable places where successful people resorted. Serenely determined + upon success, he felt himself in place amidst the outward and visible + symbols of it. Let the price be high for his modest means; this was an + investment which he could not afford to defer. He was but anticipating his + position a little, and in such wise that nobody could take exception to + it, because his self-promotion demanded no aid or favor from any other + living person. His interest was in the environment, not in the people, as + such, who were hardly more than, “walking ladies and gentlemen” + in a <i>mise-en-scène</i>. Indeed, where minor opportunities offered by + chance of making acquaintances, he coolly rejected them. Banneker did not + desire to know people—yet. When he should arrive at the point of + knowing them, it must be upon his terms, not theirs. + </p> + <p> + It was on one of his Monday evenings of splendor that a misadventure of + the sort which he had long foreboded, befell him. 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. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing with yourself?” he asked, shaking + hands. “Haven’t seen you for months.” + </p> + <p> + “Working,” replied Banneker. “Sit down and have a + cocktail. Two, Jules,” he added to the attentive waiter. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly. This is my day off.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! And how goes the job?” + </p> + <p> + “Well enough.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + From another member of the world which had inherited or captured Sherry’s + as part of the spoils of life, the question might have been offensive. But + Banneker genuinely liked Cressey. + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly,” he returned lightly. “Do I give that + unfortunate impression?” + </p> + <p> + “You give very much the impression of owning old Jules—or he + does—and having a proprietary share in the new head waiter. Are you + here much?” + </p> + <p> + “Monday evenings, only.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I quit him,” declared the gilded youth. + </p> + <p> + “Why? Isn’t it all right?” + </p> + <p> + “All right! Dammit, it’s a better job than ever I got out of + him,” returned his companion indignantly. “Some change from + the catalogue suit you sported when you landed here! You know how to wear + ’em; I’ve got to say that for you.... I’ve got to get + back. When’ll you dine with me? I want to hear all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Any Monday,” answered Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Cressey returned to his waiting potage, and was immediately bombarded with + queries, mainly from the girl on his left. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s the wonderful-looking foreigner?” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t a foreigner. At least not very much.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s an American. I ran across him out in the desert country.” + </p> + <p> + “Hence that burned-in brown. What was he doing out there?” + </p> + <p> + Cressey hesitated. Innocent of any taint of snobbery himself, he yet did + not know whether Banneker would care to have his humble position tacked + onto the tails of that work of art, his new coat. “He was in the + railroad business,” he returned cautiously. “His name is + Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been seeing him for months,” remarked another of + the company. “He’s always alone and always at that table. + Nobody knows him. He’s a mystery.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a beauty,” said Cressey’s left-hand + neighbor. + </p> + <p> + Miss Esther Forbes had been quite openly staring, with her large, gray, + and childlike eyes, at Banneker, eating his oysters in peaceful + unconsciousness of being made a subject for discussion. Miss Forbes was a + Greuze portrait come to life and adjusted to the extremes of fashion. + Behind an expression of the sweetest candor and wistfulness, as behind a + safe bulwark, she preserved an effrontery which balked at no defiance of + conventions in public, though essentially she was quite sufficiently + discreet for self-preservation. Also she had a keen little brain, a + reckless but good-humored heart and a memory retentive of important + trifles. + </p> + <p> + “In the West, Bertie?” she inquired of Cressey. “You + were in that big wreck there, weren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Devil of a wreck,” said Cressey uneasily. You never could + tell what Esther might know or might not say. + </p> + <p> + “Ask him over here,” directed that young lady blandly, “for + coffee and liqueurs.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say!” protested one of the men. “Nobody knows + anything about him—” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a friend of mine,” put in Cressey, in a tone which + ended that particular objection. “But I don’t think he’d + come.” + </p> + <p> + Instantly there was a chorus of demand for him. + </p> + <p> + “All right, I’ll try,” yielded Cressey, rising. + </p> + <p> + “Put him next to me,” directed Miss Forbes. + </p> + <p> + The emissary visited Banneker’s table, was observed to be in brief + colloquy with him, and returned, alone. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t he come?” interrogated the chorus. + </p> + <p> + “He’s awfully sorry, but he says he isn’t fit for decent + human associations.” + </p> + <p> + “More and more interesting!”—“Why?”—“What + awful thing has he been doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Eating onions,” answered Cressey. “Raw.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it,” cried the indignant Miss Forbes. + “One doesn’t eat raw onions at Sherry’s. It’s a + subterfuge.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely.” + </p> + <p> + “If I went over there myself, who’ll bet a dozen silk + stockings that I can’t—” + </p> + <p> + “Come off it, Ess,” protested her brother-in-law across the + table. “That’s too high a jump, even for you.” + </p> + <p> + She let herself be dissuaded, but her dovelike eyes were vagrant during + the rest of the dinner. + </p> + <p> + Pleasantly musing over the last glass of a good but moderate-priced + Rosemont-Geneste, Banneker became aware of Cressey’s dinner party + filing past him: then of Jules, the waiter, discreetly murmuring + something, from across the table. A faint and provocative scent came to + his nostrils, and as he followed Jules’s eyes he saw a feminine + figure standing at his elbow. He rose promptly and looked down into a face + which might have been modeled for a type of appealing innocence. + </p> + <p> + “You’re Mr. Banneker, aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m Esther Forbes, and I think I’ve heard a great deal + about you.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t seem probable,” he replied gravely. + </p> + <p> + “From a cousin of mine,” pursued the girl. “She was Io + Welland. Haven’t I?” + </p> + <p> + A shock went through Banneker at the mention of the name. But he steadied + himself to say: “I don’t think so.” + </p> + <p> + Herein he was speaking by the letter. Knowing Io Welland as he had, he + deemed it very improbable that she had even so much as mentioned him to + any of her friends. In that measure, at least, he believed, she would have + respected the memory of the romance which she had so ruthlessly blasted. + This girl, with the daring and wistful eyes, was simply fishing, so he + guessed. + </p> + <p> + His guess was correct. Mendacity was not outside of Miss Forbes’s + easy code when enlisted in a good cause, such as appeasing her own impish + curiosity. Never had Io so much as mentioned that quaint and lively + romance with which vague gossip had credited her, after her return from + the West; Esther Forbes had gathered it in, gossamer thread by gossamer + thread, and was now hoping to identify Banneker in its uncertain pattern. + Her little plan of startling him into some betrayal had proven abortive. + Not by so much as the quiver of a muscle or the minutest shifting of an + eye had he given sign. Still convinced that he was the mysterious knight + of the desert, she was moved to admiration for his self-command and to a + sub-thrill of pleasurable fear as before an unknown and formidable + species. The man who had transformed self-controlled and invincible Io + Welland into the creature of moods and nerves and revulsions which she had + been for the fortnight preceding her marriage, must be something out of + the ordinary. Instinct of womankind told Miss Forbes that this and no + other was the type of man to work such a miracle. + </p> + <p> + “But you did know Io?” she persisted, feeling, as she + afterward confessed, that she was putting her head into the mouth of a + lion concerning whose habits her knowledge was regrettably insufficient. + </p> + <p> + The lion did not bite her head off. He did not even roar. He merely said, + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “In a railroad wreck or something of that sort?” + </p> + <p> + “Something of that sort.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you awfully bored and wishing I’d go away and let you + alone?” she said, on a note that pleaded for forbearance. “Because + if you are, don’t make such heroic efforts to conceal it.” + </p> + <p> + At this an almost imperceptible twist at the corners of his lips + manifested itself to the watchful eye and cheered the enterprising soul of + Miss Forbes. “No,” he said equably, “I’m + interested to discover how far you’ll go.” + </p> + <p> + The snub left Miss Forbes unembarrassed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as far as you’ll let me,” she answered. “Did + you ride in from your ranch and drag Io out of the tangled wreckage at the + end of your lasso?” + </p> + <p> + “My ranch? I wasn’t on a ranch.” + </p> + <p> + “Please, sir,” she smiled up at him like a beseeching angel, + “what did you do that kept us all talking and speculating about you + for a whole week, though we didn’t know your name?” + </p> + <p> + “I sat right on my job as station-agent at Manzanita and made up + lists of the killed and injured,” answered Banneker dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Station-agent!” The girl was taken aback, for this was not at + all in consonance with the Io myth as it had drifted back, from sources + never determined, to New York. “Were you the station-agent?” + </p> + <p> + “I was.” + </p> + <p> + She bestowed a glance at once appraising and flattering, less upon himself + than upon his apparel. “And what are you now? President of the road?” + </p> + <p> + “A reporter on The Ledger.” + </p> + <p> + “Really!” This seemed to astonish her even more than the + previous information. “What are you reporting here?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m off duty to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Could you get off duty some afternoon and come to tea, if I’ll + promise to have Io there to meet you?” + </p> + <p> + “Your party seems to be making signals of distress, Miss Forbes.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the normal attitude of my friends and family toward + me. You’ll come, won’t you, Mr. Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you: but reporting keeps one rather too busy for amusement.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t come,” she murmured, aggrieved. “Then + it <i>is</i> true about you and Io.” + </p> + <p> + This time she achieved a result. Banneker flushed angrily, though he said, + coolly enough: “I think perhaps you would make an enterprising + reporter, yourself, Miss Forbes.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I should. Well, I’ll apologize. And if you won’t + come for Io—she’s still abroad, by the way and won’t be + back for a month—perhaps you’ll come for me. Just to show that + you forgive my impertinences. Everybody does. I’m going to tell + Bertie Cressey he must bring you.... All right, Bertie! I wish you wouldn’t + follow me up like—like a paper-chase. Good-night, Mr. Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + To her indignant escort she declared that it couldn’t have hurt them + to wait a jiffy; that she had had a most amusing conversation; that Mr. + Banneker was as charming as he was good to look at; and that (in answer to + sundry questions) she had found out little or nothing, though she hoped + for better results in future. + </p> + <p> + “But he’s Io’s passion-in-the-desert right enough,” + said the irreverent Miss Forbes. + </p> + <p> + Banneker sat long over his cooling coffee. Through haunted nights he had + fought maddening memories of Io’s shadowed eyes, of the exhalant, + irresistible femininity of her, of the pulses of her heart against his on + that wild and wonderful night in the flood; and he had won to an armed + peace, in which the outposts of his spirit were ever on guard against the + recurrent thoughts of her. + </p> + <p> + Now, at the bitter music of her name on the lips of a gossiping and + frivolous girl, the barriers had given away. In eagerness and + self-contempt he surrendered to the vision. Go to an afternoon tea to see + and speak with her again? He would, in that awakened mood, have walked + across the continent, only to be in her presence, to feel himself once + more within the radius of that inexorable charm. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + “Katie’s” sits, sedate and serviceable, on a narrow side + street so near to Park Row that the big table in the rear rattles its + dishes when the presses begin their seismic rumblings, in the daily effort + to shake the world. Here gather the pick and choice of New York + journalism, while still on duty, to eat and drink and discuss the inner + news of things which is so often much more significant than the published + version; haply to win or lose a few swiftly earned dollars at pass-three + hearts. It is the unofficial press club of Newspaper Row. + </p> + <p> + Said McHale of The Sphere, who, having been stuck with the queen of spades—that + most unlucky thirteener—twice in succession, was retiring on his + losses, to Mallory of The Ledger who had just come in: + </p> + <p> + “I hear you’ve got a sucking genius at your shop.” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean Banneker, he’s weaned,” replied the + assistant city editor of The Ledger. “He goes on space next week.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he, though! Quick work, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “A record for the office. He’s been on the staff less than a + year.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he really such a wonder?” asked Glidden of The Monitor. + </p> + <p> + Three or four Ledger men answered at once, citing various stories which + had stirred the interest of Park Row. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you Ledger fellows are always giving the college yell for each + other,” said McHale, impatiently voicing the local jealousy of The + Ledger’s recognized <i>esprit de corps</i>. “I’ve seen + bigger rockets than him come down in the ash-heap.” + </p> + <p> + “He won’t,” prophesied Tommy Burt, The Ledger’s + humorous specialist. “He’ll go up and stay up. High! He’s + got the stuff.” + </p> + <p> + “They say,” observed Fowler, the star man of The Patriot, + “he covers his assignment in taxicabs.” + </p> + <p> + “He gets the news,” murmured Mallory, summing up in that + phrase all the encomiums which go to the perfect praise of the + natural-born reporter. + </p> + <p> + “And he writes it,” put in Van Cleve of The Courier. “Lord, + how that boy can write! Why, a Banneker two-sticks stands out as if it + were printed in black-face.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never seen him around,” remarked Glidden. “What + does he do with himself besides work?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, I imagine,” answered Mallory. “One of the cubs + reports finding him at the Public Library, before ten o’clock in the + morning, surrounded by books on journalism. He’s a serious young + owl.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t get into his copy, then,” asserted “Parson” + Gale, political expert for The Ledger. + </p> + <p> + “Nor into his appearance. He certainly dresses like a flower of the + field. Even the wrinkles in his clothes have the touch of high-priced + Fifth Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + “Must be rich,” surmised Fowler. “Taxis for assignments + and Fifth-Avenue raiment sound like real money.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody knows where he got it, then,” said Tommy Burt. “Used + to be a freight brakeman or something out in the wild-and-woolly. When he + arrived, he was dressed very proud and stiff like a Baptist elder going to + make a social call, all but the made-up bow tie and the oil on the hair. + Some change and sudden!” + </p> + <p> + “Got a touch of the swelled head, though, hasn’t he?” + asked Van Cleve. “I hear he’s beginning to pick his + assignments already. Refuses to take society stuff and that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Mallory, “I suppose that comes from his being + assigned to a tea given by the Thatcher Forbes for some foreign celebrity, + and asking to be let off because he’d already been invited there and + declined.” + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” exclaimed McHale. “Where does our young bird + come in to fly as high as the Thatcher Forbes? He may look like a million + dollars, but is he?” + </p> + <p> + “All I know,” said Tommy Burt, “is that every Monday, + which is his day off, he dines at Sherry’s, and goes in lonely glory + to a first-night, if there is one, afterward. It must have been costing + him half of his week’s salary.” + </p> + <p> + “Swelled head, sure,” diagnosed Decker, the financial reporter + of The Ledger. “Well, watch the great Chinese joss, Greenough, pull + the props from under him when the time comes.” + </p> + <p> + “As how?” inquired Glidden. + </p> + <p> + “By handing him a nawsty one out of the assignment book, just to + show him where his hat fits too tight.” + </p> + <p> + “A run of four-line obits,” suggested Van Cleve, who had + passed a painful apprenticeship of death-notices in which is neither + profitable space nor hopeful opportunity, “for a few days, will do + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Or the job of asking an indignant millionaire papa why his pet + daughter ran away with the second footman and where.” + </p> + <p> + “Or interviewing old frozen-faced Willis Enderby on his political + intentions, honorable or dishonorable.” + </p> + <p> + “If I know Banneker,” said Mallory, “he’s game. He’ll + take what’s handed him and put it over.” + </p> + <p> + “Once, maybe,” contributed Tommy Burt. “Twice, perhaps. + But I wouldn’t want to crowd too much on him.” + </p> + <p> + “Greenough won’t. He’s wise in the ways of marvelous and + unlicked cubs,” said Decker. + </p> + <p> + “Why? What do you think Banneker would do?” asked Mallory + curiously, addressing Burt. + </p> + <p> + “If he got an assignment too rich for his stomach? Well, speaking + unofficially and without special knowledge, I’d guess that he’d + handle it to a finish, and then take his very smart and up-to-date hat and + perform a polite adieu to Mr. Greenough and all the works of The Ledger + city room.” + </p> + <p> + A thin, gray, somnolent elder at the end of the table, whose nobly cut + face was seared with lines of physical pain endured and outlived, withdrew + a very small pipe from his mouth and grunted. + </p> + <p> + “The Venerable Russell Edmonds has the floor,” said Tommy Burt + in a voice whose open raillery subtly suggested an underlying affection + and respect. “He snorts, and in that snort is sublimated the wisdom + and experience of a ripe ninety years on Park Row. Speak, O Compendium of + all the—” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, Tommy,” interrupted Edmonds. He resumed his pipe, + gave it two anxious puffs, and, satisfied of its continued vitality, said: + </p> + <p> + “Banneker, uh? Resign, uh? You think he would?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Does <i>he</i> think so?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s my belief.” + </p> + <p> + “He won’t,” pronounced the veteran with finality. + “They never do. They chafe. They strain. They curse out the job and + themselves. They say it isn’t fit for any white man. So it isn’t, + the worst of it. But they stick. If they’re marked for it, they + stick.” + </p> + <p> + “Marked for it?” murmured Glidden. + </p> + <p> + “The ink-spot. The mark of the beast. I’ve got it. You’ve + got it, Glidden, and you, McHale. Mallory’s smudged with it. Tommy + thinks it’s all over him, but it isn’t. He’ll end + between covers. Fiction, like as not,” he added with a mildly + contemptuous smile. “But this young Banneker; it’s eaten into + him like acid.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know him, Pop?” inquired McHale. + </p> + <p> + “Never saw him. Don’t have to. I’ve read his stuff.” + </p> + <p> + “And you see it there?” + </p> + <p> + “Plain as Brooklyn Bridge. He’ll eat mud like the rest of us.” + </p> + <p> + “Come off, Pop! Where do you come in to eat mud? You’ve got + the creamiest job on Park Row. You never have to do anything that a + railroad president need shy at.” + </p> + <p> + This was nearly true. Edmonds, who in his thirty years of service had + filled almost every conceivable position from police headquarters reporter + to managing editor, had now reverted to the phase for which the ink-spot + had marked him, and was again a reporter; a sort of super-reporter, + spending much of his time out around the country on important projects + either of news, or of that special information necessary to a great daily, + which does not always appear as news, but which may define, determine, or + alter news and editorial policies. + </p> + <p> + Of him it was said on Park Row, and not without reason, that he was bigger + than his paper, which screened him behind a traditional principle of + anonymity, for The Courier was of the second rank in metropolitan + journalism and wavered between an indigenous Bourbonism and a desire to be + thought progressive. The veteran’s own creed was frankly + socialistic; but in the Fabian phase. His was a patient philosophy, + content with slow progress; but upon one point he was a passionate + enthusiast. He believed in the widest possible scope of education, and in + the fundamental duty of the press to stimulate it. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll get the Social Revolution just as soon as we’re + educated up to it,” he was wont to declare. “If we get it + before then, it’ll be a worse hash than capitalism. So let’s + go slow and learn.” + </p> + <p> + For such a mind to be contributing to an organ of The Courier type might + seem anomalous. Often Edmonds accused himself of shameful compromise; the + kind of compromise constantly necessary to hold his place. Yet it was not + any consideration of self-interest that bound him. He could have commanded + higher pay in half a dozen open positions. Or, he could have afforded to + retire, and write as he chose, for he had been a shrewd investor with wide + opportunities. What really held him was his ability to forward almost + imperceptibly through the kind of news political and industrial, which he, + above all other journalists of his day, was able to determine and analyze, + the radical projects dear to his heart. Nothing could have had a more + titillating appeal to his sardonic humor than the furious editorial + refutations in The Courier, of facts and tendencies plainly enunciated by + him in the news columns. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, his impotency to speak out openly and individually the faith + that was in him, left always a bitter residue in his mind. It now informed + his answer to Van Cleve’s characterization of his job. + </p> + <p> + “If I can sneak a tenth of the truth past the copy-desk,” he + said, “I’m doing well. And what sort of man am I when I go up + against these big-bugs of industry at their conventions, and conferences, + appearing as representative of The Courier which represents their + interests? A damned hypocrite, I’d say! If they had brains enough to + read between the lines of my stuff, they’d see it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you tell ’em?” asked Mallory lazily. + </p> + <p> + “I did, once. I told the President of the United Manufacturers’ + Association what I really thought of their attitude toward labor.” + </p> + <p> + “With what result?” + </p> + <p> + “He ordered The Courier to fire me.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re still there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But he isn’t. I went after him on his record.” + </p> + <p> + “All of which doesn’t sound much like mud-eating, Pop.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve done my bit of that in my time, too. I’ve had jobs + to do that a self-respecting swill-hustler wouldn’t touch. I’ve + sworn I wouldn’t do ‘em. And I’ve done ’em, rather than + lose my job. Just as young Banneker will, when the test comes.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll bet he won’t,” said Tommy Burt. + </p> + <p> + Mallory, who had been called away, returned in time to hear this. “You + might ask him to settle the bet,” he suggested. “I’ve + just had him on the ‘phone. He’s coming around.” + </p> + <p> + “I will,” said Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + On his arrival Banneker was introduced to those of the men whom he did not + know, and seated next to Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve been talking about you, young fellow,” said the + veteran. + </p> + <p> + From most men Banneker would have found the form of address patronizing. + But the thin, knotty face of Edmonds was turned upon him with so kindly a + regard in the hollow eyes that he felt an innate stir of knowledge that + here was a man who might be a friend. He made no answer, however, merely + glancing at the speaker. To learn that the denizens of Park Row were + discussing him, caused him neither surprise nor elation. While he knew + that he had made hit after hit with his work, he was not inclined to + over-value the easily won reputation. Edmonds’s next remark did not + please him. + </p> + <p> + “We were discussing how much dirt you’d eat to hold your job + on The Ledger.” + </p> + <p> + “The Ledger doesn’t ask its men to eat dirt, Edmonds,” + put in Mallory sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Chop, fried potatoes, coffee, and a stein of Nicklas-brau,” + Banneker specified across the table to the waiter. He studied the + mimeographed bill-of-fare with selective attention. “And a slice of + apple pie,” he decided. Without change of tone, he looked up over + the top of the menu at Edmonds slowly puffing his insignificant pipe and + said: “I don’t like your assumption, Mr. Edmonds.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s ugly,” admitted the other, “but you have to + answer it. Oh, not to me!” he added, smiling. “To yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “It hasn’t come my way yet.” + </p> + <p> + “It will. Ask any of these fellows. We’ve all had to meet it. + Yes; you, too, Mallory. We’ve all had to eat our peck of dirt in the + sacred name of news. Some are too squeamish. They quit.” + </p> + <p> + “If they’re too squeamish, they’d never make real + newspaper men,” pronounced McHale. “You can’t be too + good for your business.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so,” said Tommy Burt acidly, “but your business + can be too bad for you.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s got to be news. And if there’s got to be news + there have got to be men willing to do hard, unpleasant work, to get it,” + argued Mallory. + </p> + <p> + “Hard? All right,” retorted Edmonds. “Unpleasant? Who + cares! I’m talking about the dirty work. Wait a minute, Mallory. + Didn’t you ever have an assignment that was an outrage on some + decent man’s privacy? Or, maybe woman’s? Something that made + you sick at your stomach to have to do? Did you ever have to take a couple + of drinks to give you nerve to ask some question that ought to have got + you kicked downstairs for asking?” + </p> + <p> + Mallory, flushing angrily, was silent. But McHale spoke up. “Hell! + Every business has its stinks, I guess. What about being a lawyer and + serving papers? Or a manufacturer and having to bootlick the buyers? I + tell you, if the public wants a certain kind of news, it’s the + newspaper’s business to serve it to ’em; and it’s the + newspaper man’s business to get it for his paper. I say it’s + up to the public.” + </p> + <p> + “The public,” murmured Edmonds. “Swill-eaters.” + </p> + <p> + “All right! Then give ’em the kind of swill they want,” + cried McHale. + </p> + <p> + Edmonds so manipulated his little pipe that it pointed directly at + Banneker. “Would you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Would I what?” + </p> + <p> + “Give ’em the kind of swill they want? You seem to like to + keep your hands clean.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you asking me your original question in another form?” + smiled the young man. + </p> + <p> + “You objected to it before.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll answer it now. A friend of mine wrote to me when I went + on The Ledger, advising me always to be ready on a moment’s notice + to look my job between the eyes and tell it to go to hell.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I’ve known that done, too,” interpolated Mallory. + “But in those cases it isn’t the job that goes.” He + pushed back his chair. “Don’t let Pop Edmonds corrupt you with + his pessimism, Banneker,” he warned. “He doesn’t mean + half of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Under the seal of the profession,” said the veteran. “If + there were outsiders present, it would be different. I’d have to + admit that ours is the greatest, noblest, most high-minded and inspired + business in the world. Free and enlightened press. Fearless defender of + the right. Incorruptible agent of the people’s will. Did I say + ‘people’s will’ or ‘people’s swill’? Don’t + ask me!” + </p> + <p> + The others paid their accounts and followed Mallory out, leaving Banneker + alone at the table with the saturnine elder. Edmonds put a thumbful of + tobacco in his pipe, and puffed silently. + </p> + <p> + “What will it get a man?” asked Banneker, setting down his + coffee-cup. + </p> + <p> + “This game?” queried the other. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “‘What shall it profit a man,’” quoted the veteran + ruminatively. “You know the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” returned Banneker decidedly. “That won’t do. + These fellows here haven’t sold their souls.” + </p> + <p> + “Or lost ’em. Maybe not,” admitted the elder. “Though + I wouldn’t gamble strong on some of ’em. But they’ve + lost something.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is it? That’s what I’m trying to get at.” + </p> + <p> + “Independence. They’re merged in the paper they write for.” + </p> + <p> + “Every man’s got to subordinate himself to his business, if he’s + to do justice to it and himself, hasn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. If you’re buying or selling stocks or socks, it doesn’t + matter. The principles you live by aren’t involved. In the newspaper + game they are.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in reporting, though.” + </p> + <p> + “If reporting were just gathering facts and presenting them, it + wouldn’t be so. But you’re deep enough in by now to see that + reporting of a lot of things is a matter of coloring your version to the + general policy of your paper. Politics, for instance, or the liquor + question, or labor troubles. The best reporters get to doing it + unconsciously. Chameleons.” + </p> + <p> + “And you think it affects them?” + </p> + <p> + “How can it help? There’s a slow poison in writing one way + when you believe another.” + </p> + <p> + “And that’s part of the dirt-eating?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes. Not so obvious as some of the other kinds. Those hurt + your pride, mostly. This kind hurts your self-respect.” + </p> + <p> + “But where does it get you, all this business?” asked Banneker + reverting to his first query. + </p> + <p> + “I’m fifty-two years old,” replied Edmonds quietly. + </p> + <p> + Banneker stared. “Oh, I see!” he said presently. “And + you’re considered a success. Of course you <i>are</i> a success.” + </p> + <p> + “On Park Row. Would you like to be me? At fifty-two?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I wouldn’t,” said Banneker with a frankness which + brought a faint smile to the other man’s tired face. “Yet you’ve + got where you started for, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I could answer that if I knew where I started for or where + I’ve got to.” + </p> + <p> + “Put it that you’ve got what you were after, then.” + </p> + <p> + “No’s the answer. Upper-case No. I want to get certain things + over to the public intelligence. Maybe I’ve got one per cent of them + over. Not more.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s something. To have a public that will follow you even + part way—” + </p> + <p> + “Follow me? Bless you; they don’t know me except as a lot of + print that they occasionally read. I’m as anonymous as an editorial + writer. And that’s the most anonymous thing there is.” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t suit me at all,” declared Banneker. + “If I have got anything in me—and I think I have—I don’t + want it to make a noise like a part of a big machine. I’d rather + make a small noise of my own.” + </p> + <p> + “Buy a paper, then. Or write fluffy criticisms about art or + theaters. Or get into the magazine field. You can write; O Lord! yes, you + can write. But unless you’ve got the devotion of a fanatic like + McHale, or a born servant of the machine like ‘Parson’ Gale, + or an old fool like me, willing to sink your identity in your work, you’ll + never be content as a reporter.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me something. Why do none of the men, talking among + themselves, ever refer to themselves as reporters. It’s always + ‘newspaper men.’” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds shot a swift glance at him. “What do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” he decided slowly, “it’s because there + is a sort of stigma attached to reporting.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn you, you’re right!” snapped the veteran. “Though + it’s the rankest heresy to admit it. There’s a taint about it. + There’s a touch of the pariah. We try to fool ourselves into + thinking there isn’t. But it’s there, and we admit it when we + use a clumsy, misfit term like ‘newspaper man.’” + </p> + <p> + “Whose fault is it?” + </p> + <p> + “The public’s. The public is a snob. It likes to look down on + brains. Particularly the business man. That’s why I’m a + Socialist. I’m ag’in the bourgeoisie.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t the newspapers to blame, in the kind of stuff they + print?” + </p> + <p> + “And why do they print it?” demanded the other fiercely. + “Because the public wants all the filth and scandal and invasion of + privacy that it can get and still feel respectable.” + </p> + <p> + “The Ledger doesn’t go in for that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Not as much as some of the others. But a little more each year. It + follows the trend.” He got up, quenched his pipe, and reached for + his hat. “Drop in here about seven-thirty when you feel like hearing + the old man maunder,” he said with his slight, friendly smile. + </p> + <p> + Rising, Banneker leaned over to him. “Who’s the man at the + next table?” he asked in a low voice, indicating a tall, broad, + glossily dressed diner who was sipping his third <i>demi-tasse</i>, in + apparent detachment from the outside world. + </p> + <p> + “His name is Marrineal,” replied the veteran. “He dines + here occasionally alone. Don’t know what he does.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s been listening in.” + </p> + <p> + “Curious thing; he often does.” + </p> + <p> + As they parted at the door, Edmonds said paternally: + </p> + <p> + “Remember, young fellow, a Park Row reputation is written on glass + with a wet finger. It doesn’t last during the writing.” + </p> + <p> + “And only dims the glass,” said Banneker reflectively. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + Heat, sudden, savage, and oppressive, bore down upon the city early that + spring, smiting men in their offices, women in their homes, the horses + between the shafts of their toil, so that the city was in danger of + becoming disorganized. The visitation developed into the big story of + successive days. It was the sort of generalized, picturesque “fluff-stuff” + matter which Banneker could handle better than his compeers by sheer + imaginative grasp and deftness of presentation. Being now a writer on + space, paid at the rate of eight dollars a column of from thirteen to + nineteen hundred words, he found the assignment profitable and the test of + skill quite to his taste. Soft job though it was in a way, however, the + unrelenting pressure of the heat and the task of finding, day after day, + new phases and fresh phrases in which to deal with it, made inroads upon + his nerves. + </p> + <p> + He took to sleeping ill again. Io Welland had come back in all the + glamorous panoply of waking dreams to command and torment his loneliness + of spirit. At night he dreaded the return to the draughtless room on Grove + Street. In the morning, rising sticky-eyed and unrested, he shrank from + the thought of the humid, dusty, unkempt hurly-burly of the office. Yet + his work was never more brilliant and individual. + </p> + <p> + Having finished his writing, one reeking midnight, he sat, spent, at his + desk, hating the thought of the shut-in place that he called home. Better + to spend the night on a bench in some square, as he had done often enough + in the earlier days. He rose, took his hat, and had reached the first + landing when the steps wavered and faded in front of him and he found + himself clutching for the rail. A pair of hands gripped his shoulders and + held him up. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter, Mr. Banneker?” asked a voice. + </p> + <p> + “God!” muttered Banneker. “I wish I were back on the + desert.” + </p> + <p> + “You want a drink,” prescribed his volunteer prop. + </p> + <p> + As his vision and control reestablished themselves, Banneker found himself + being led downstairs and to the nearest bar by young Fentriss Smith, who + ordered two soda cocktails. + </p> + <p> + Of Smith he knew little except that the office called him “the + permanent twenty-five-dollar man.” He was one of those earnest, + faithful, totally uninspired reporters, who can be relied upon implicitly + for routine news, but are constitutionally impotent to impart color and + life to any subject whatsoever. Patiently he had seen younger and newer + men overtake and pass him; but he worked on inexorably, asking for + nothing, wearing the air of a scholar with some distant and abstruse + determination in view. Like Banneker he had no intimates in the office. + </p> + <p> + “The desert,” echoed Smith in his quiet, well-bred voice. + “Isn’t it pretty hot, there, too?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s open,” said Banneker. “I’m smothering + here.” + </p> + <p> + “You look frazzled out, if you don’t mind my saying so.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel frazzled out; that’s what I mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you come out with me to-night as soon as I report to the + desk,” suggested the other. + </p> + <p> + Banneker, refreshed by the tingling drink, looked down at him in surprise. + “Where?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a little boat out here in the East River.” + </p> + <p> + “A boat? Lord, that sounds good!” sighed Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Does it? Then see here! Why couldn’t you put in a few days + with me, and cool off? I’ve often wanted to talk to you about the + newspaper business, and get your ideas.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’m newer at it than you are.” + </p> + <p> + “For a fact! Just the same you’ve got the trick of it and I + haven’t. I’ll go around to your place while you pack a + suitcase, and we’re off.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s very good of you.” Accustomed though he was to + the swift and ready comradeship of a newspaper office, Banneker was + puzzled by this advance from the shy and remote Smith. “All right: + if you’ll let me share expenses,” he said presently. + </p> + <p> + Smith seemed taken aback at this. “Just as you like,” he + assented. “Though I don’t quite know—We’ll talk of + that later.” + </p> + <p> + While Banneker was packing in his room, Smith, seated on the window-sill, + remarked: + </p> + <p> + “I ought to tell you that we have to go through a bad district to + get there.” + </p> + <p> + “The Tunnel Gang?” asked Banneker, wise in the plague spots of + the city. + </p> + <p> + “Just this side of their stamping ground. It’s a gang of wharf + rats. There have been a number of hold-ups, and last week a dead woman was + found under the pier.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker made an unobtrusive addition to his packing. “They’ll + have to move fast to catch me,” he observed. + </p> + <p> + “Two of us together won’t be molested. But if you’re + alone, be careful. The police in that precinct are no good. They’re + either afraid or they stand in with the gang.” + </p> + <p> + On Fifth Avenue the pair got a late-cruising taxicab whose driver, + however, declined to take them nearer than one block short of the pier. + “The night air in that place ain’t good fer weak + constitutions,” he explained. “One o’ my pals got a + headache last week down on the pier from bein’ beaned with a + sandbag.” + </p> + <p> + No one interfered with the two reporters, however. A whistle from the end + of the pier evolved from the watery dimness a dinghy, which, in a hundred + yards of rowing, delivered them into a small but perfectly appointed + yacht. Banneker, looking about the luxurious cabin, laughed a little. + </p> + <p> + “That was a bad guess of mine about half expenses,” he said + good-humoredly. “I’d have to mortgage my future for a year. Do + you own this craft?” + </p> + <p> + “My father does. He’s been called back West.” + </p> + <p> + Bells rang, the wheel began to churn, and Banneker, falling asleep in his + berth with a vivifying breeze blowing across him, awoke in broad daylight + to a view of sparkling little waves which danced across his vision to + smack impudently the flanks of the speeding craft. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll be in by noon,” was Smith’s greeting as + they met on the companionway for a swim. + </p> + <p> + “What do you do it for?” asked Banneker, seated at the + breakfast table, with an appetite such as he had not known for weeks. + </p> + <p> + “Do what?” + </p> + <p> + “Two men’s work at twenty-five per for The Ledger?” + </p> + <p> + “Training.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to stick to the business?” + </p> + <p> + “The family,” explained Smith, “own a newspaper in + Toledo. It fell to them by accident. Our real business is manufacturing + farm machinery, and none of us has ever tried or thought of manufacturing + newspapers. So they wished on me the job of learning how.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not particularly. But I’m going through with it.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker felt a new and surprised respect for his host. He could forecast + the kind of small city newspaper that Smith would make; careful, + conscientious, regular in politics, loyal to what it deemed the best + interests of the community, single-minded in its devotion to the Smith + family and its properties; colorless, characterless, and without vision or + leadership in all that a newspaper should, according to Banneker’s + opinion, stand for. So he talked with the fervor of an enthusiast, a + missionary, a devotee, who saw in that daily chronicle of the news an + agency to stir men’s minds and spur their thoughts, if need be, to + action; at the same time the mechanism and instrument of power, of + achievement, of success. Fentriss Smith listened and was troubled in + spirit by these unknown fires. He had supposed respectability to be the + final aim and end of a sound newspaper tradition. + </p> + <p> + The apparent intimacy which had sprung up between twenty-five-dollar Smith + and the reserved, almost hermit-like Banneker was the subject of curious + and amused commentary in The Ledger office. Mallory hazarded a humorous + guess that Banneker was tutoring Smith in the finer arts of journalism, + which was not so far amiss as its proponent might have supposed. + </p> + <p> + The Great Heat broke several evenings later in a drench of rain and wind. + This, being in itself important news, kept Banneker late at his writing, + and he had told his host not to wait, that he would join him on the yacht + sometime about midnight. So Smith had gone on alone. + </p> + <p> + The next morning Tommy Burt, lounging into the office from an early + assignment, approached the City Desk with a twinkle far back in his lively + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Hear anything of a shoot-fest up in the Bad Lands last night?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” replied Mr. Greenough. “They’re getting + to be everyday occurrences up there. Is it on the police slips, Mr. + Mallory?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Nothing in that line,” answered the assistant, looking + over his assortment. + </p> + <p> + “Police are probably suppressing it,” opined Burt. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got the story?” queried Mr. Greenough. + </p> + <p> + “In outline. It isn’t really my story.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose is it, then?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s part of it.” Tommy Burt leaned against Mallory’s + desk and appeared to be revolving some delectable thought in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Tommy,” said Mallory, “they didn’t open that + committee meeting you’ve been attending with a corkscrew, did they?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m intoxicated with the chaste beauties of my story, which + isn’t mine,” returned the dreamily smiling Mr. Burt. “Here + it is, boiled down. Guest on an anchored yacht returning late, sober, + through the mist. Wharf-gang shooting craps in a pier-shed. They size him + up and go to it; six of ’em. Knives and one gun: maybe more. The old + game: one asks for the time. Another sneaks up behind and gives the victim + the elbow-garrote. The rest rush him. Well, they got as far as the + garrote. Everything lovely and easy. Then Mr. Victim introduces a few + specialties. Picks a gun from somewhere around his shirt-front, shoots the + garroter over his shoulder; kills the man in front, who is at him with a + stiletto, ducks a couple of shots from the gang, and lays out two more of + ’em. The rest take to the briny. Tally: two dead, one dying, one + wounded, Mr. Guest walks to the shore end, meets two patrolmen, and turns + in his gun. ‘I’ve done a job for you,’ says he. So they + pinch him. He’s in the police station, <i>incomunicado</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Throughout the narrative, Mr. Greenough had thrown in little, purring + interjections of “Good! Good!”—“Yes.”—“Ah! + good!” At the conclusion Mallory exclaimed! + </p> + <p> + “Moses! That is a story! You say it isn’t yours? Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it’s Banneker’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s the guest with the gun.” + </p> + <p> + Mallory jumped in his chair. “Banneker!” he exclaimed. “Oh, + hell!” he added disconsolately. + </p> + <p> + “Takes the shine out of the story, doesn’t it?” observed + Burt with a malicious smile. + </p> + <p> + One of the anomalous superstitions of newspaperdom is that nothing which + happens to a reporter in the line of his work is or can be “big + news.” The mere fact that he is a reporter is enough to blight the + story. + </p> + <p> + “What was Banneker doing down there?” queried Mr. Greenough. + </p> + <p> + “Visiting on a yacht.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that so?” There was a ray of hope in the other’s + face. The glamour of yachting association might be made to cast a radiance + about the event, in which the damnatory fact that the principal figure was + a mere reporter could be thrown into low relief. Such is the view which + journalistic snobbery takes of the general public’s snobbery. + “Whose yacht?” + </p> + <p> + Again the spiteful little smile appealed on Burt’s lips as he dashed + the rising hope. “Fentriss Smith’s.” + </p> + <p> + And again the expletive of disillusion burst from between Mallory’s + teeth as he saw the front-page double-column spread, a type-specialty of + the usually conservative Ledger upon which it prided itself, dwindle to a + carefully handled inside-page three-quarter of a column. + </p> + <p> + “You say that Mr. Banneker is in the police station?” asked + the city editor. + </p> + <p> + “Or at headquarters. They’re probably working the third degree + on him.” + </p> + <p> + “That won’t do,” declared the city desk incumbent, with + conviction. He caught up the telephone, got the paper’s City Hall + reporter, and was presently engaged in some polite but pointed suggestions + to His Honor the Mayor. Shortly after, Police Headquarters called; the + Chief himself was on the wire. + </p> + <p> + “The Ledger is behind Mr. Banneker, Chief,” said Mr. Greenough + crisply. “Carrying concealed weapons? If your men in that precinct + were fit to be on the force, there would be no need for private citizens + to go armed. You get the point, I see. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Unless I am a bad guesser we’ll have Banneker back here by + evening. And there’ll be no manhandling in his case,” Mallory + said to Burt. + </p> + <p> + Counsel was taken of Mr. Gordon, as soon as that astute managing editor + arrived, as to the handling of the difficult situation. The Ledger, always + cynically intolerant of any effort to better the city government, as + savoring of “goo-gooism,” which was its special <i>bête noire</i>, + could not well make the shooting a basis for a general attack upon police + laxity, though it was in this that lay the special news possibility of the + event. On the other hand, the thing was far too sensational to be ignored + or too much slurred. + </p> + <p> + Andreas, the assistant managing editor, in charge of the paper’s + make-up, a true news-hound with an untainted delight in the unusual and + striking, no matter what its setting might be, who had been called into + the conference, advocated “smearing it all over the front page, with + Banneker’s first-hand statement for the lead—pictures too.” + </p> + <p> + Him, Mr. Greenough, impassive joss of the city desk, regarded with a chill + eye. “One reporter visiting another gets into a muss and shoots up + some riverside toughs,” he remarked contemptuously. “You can + hardly expect our public to get greatly excited over that. Are we going + into the business of exploiting our own cubs?” + </p> + <p> + Thereupon there was sharp discussion to which Mr. Gordon put an end by + remarking that the evening papers would doubtless give them a lead; + meantime they could get Banneker’s version. + </p> + <p> + First to come in was The Evening New Yorker, the most vapid of all the + local prints, catering chiefly to the uptown and shopping element. Its + heading half-crossed the page proclaiming “Guest of Yachtsman Shoots + Down Thugs.” Nowhere in the article did it appear that Banneker had + any connection with the newspaper world. He was made to appear as a young + Westerner on a visit to the yacht of a millionaire business man, having + come on from his ranch in the desert, and presumptively—to add the + touch of godhead—a millionaire himself. + </p> + <p> + “The stinking liars!” said Andreas. + </p> + <p> + “That settles it,” declared Mr. Gordon. “We’ll + give the facts plainly and without sensationalism; but all the facts.” + </p> + <p> + “Including Mr. Banneker’s connection here?” inquired Mr. + Greenough. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + The other evening papers, more honest than The Evening New Yorker, + admitted, though, as it were, regretfully and in an inconspicuous finale + to their accounts that the central figure of the sensation was only a + reporter. But the fact of his being guest on a yacht was magnified and + glorified. + </p> + <p> + At five o’clock Banneker arrived, having been bailed out after some + difficulty, for the police were frightened and ugly, foreseeing that this + swift vengeance upon the notorious gang, meted out by a private hand, + would throw a vivid light upon their own inefficiency and complaisance. + Happily the District Attorney’s office was engaged in one of its + periodical feuds with the Police Department over some matter of graft gone + astray, and was more inclined to make a cat’s-paw than a victim out + of Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Though inwardly strung to a high pitch, for the police officials had kept + him sleepless through the night by their habitual inquisition, Banneker + held himself well in hand as he went to the City Desk to report gravely + that he had been unable to come earlier. + </p> + <p> + “So we understand, Mr. Banneker,” said Mr. Greenough, his + placid features for once enlivened. “That was a good job you did. I + congratulate you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Mr. Greenough,” returned Banneker. “I had to + do it or get done. And, at that, it wasn’t much of a trick. They + were a yellow lot.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely: very likely. You’ve handled a gun before.” + </p> + <p> + “Only in practice.” + </p> + <p> + “Ever shot anybody before?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “How does it feel?” inquired the city editor, turning his pale + eyes on the other and fussing nervously with his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “At first you want to go on killing,” answered Banneker. + “Then, when it’s over, there’s a big let-down. It doesn’t + seem as if it were you.” He paused and added boyishly: “The + evening papers are making an awful fuss over it.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you expect? It isn’t every day that a Wild West Show + with real bullets and blood is staged in this effete town.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I knew there’d be a kick-up about it,” + admitted Banneker. “But, some way—well, in the West, if a gang + gets shot up, there’s quite a bit of talk for a while, and the boys + want to buy the drinks for the fellow that does it, but it doesn’t + spread all over the front pages. I suppose I still have something of the + Western view.... How much did you want of this, Mr. Greenough?” he + concluded in a business-like tone. + </p> + <p> + “You are not doing the story, Mr. Banneker. Tommy Burt is.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not writing it? Not any of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. You’re the hero”—there was a hint + of elongation of the first syllable which might have a sardonic + connotation from those pale and placid lips—“not the + historian. Burt will interview you.” + </p> + <p> + “A Patriot reporter has already. I gave him a statement.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Greenough frowned. “It would have been as well to have waited. + However.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Banneker,” put in Mallory, “Judge Enderby wants you + to call at his office.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s Judge Enderby?” + </p> + <p> + “Chief Googler of the Goo-Goos; the Law Enforcement Society lot. + They call him the ablest honest lawyer in New York. He’s an old + crab. Hates the newspapers, particularly us.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “He cherishes some theory,” said Mr. Greenough in his most + toneless voice, “that a newspaper ought to be conducted solely in + the interests of people like himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there any reason why I should go chasing around to see him?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s as you choose. He doesn’t see reporters often. + Perhaps it would be as well.” + </p> + <p> + “His outfit are after the police,” explained Mallory. “That’s + what he wants you for. It’s part of their political game. Always + politics.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he can wait until to-morrow, I suppose,” remarked + Banneker indifferently. + </p> + <p> + Greenough examined him with impenetrable gaze. This was a very cavalier + attitude toward Judge Willis Enderby. For Enderby was a man of real power. + He might easily have been the most munificently paid corporation attorney + in the country but for the various kinds of business which he would not, + in his own homely phrase, “poke at with a burnt stick.” + Notwithstanding his prejudices, he was confidential legal adviser, in + personal and family affairs, to a considerable percentage of the important + men and women of New York. He was supposed to be the only man who could + handle that bull-elephant of finance, ruler of Wall Street, and, when he + chose to give it his contemptuous attention, dictator, through his son and + daughters, of the club and social world of New York, old Poultney Masters, + in the apoplectic rages into which the slightest thwart to his will + plunged him. To Enderby’s adroitness the financier (one of whose pet + vanities was a profound and wholly baseless faith in himself as a + connoisseur of art) owed it that he had not become a laughing-stock + through his purchase of a pair of particularly flagrant Murillos, planted + for his special behoof by a gang of clever Italian swindlers. Rumor had it + that when Enderby had privately summed up his client’s case for his + client’s benefit before his client as referee, in these words: + “And, Mr. Masters, if you act again in these matters without + consulting me, you must find another lawyer; I cannot afford fools for + clients”—they had to call in a physician and resort to the + ancient expedient of bleeding, to save the great man’s cerebral + arteries from bursting. + </p> + <p> + Toward the public press, Enderby’s attitude was the exact reverse of + Horace Vanney’s. For himself, he unaffectedly disliked and despised + publicity; for the interests which he represented, he delegated it to + others. He would rarely be interviewed; his attitude toward the newspapers + was consistently repellent. Consequently his infrequent utterances were + treasured as pearls, and given a prominence far above those of the too + eager and over-friendly Mr. Vanney, who, incidentally, was his associate + on the directorate of the Law Enforcement Society. The newspapers did not + like Willis Enderby any more than he liked them. But they cherished for + him an unrequited respect. + </p> + <p> + That a reporter, a nobody of yesterday whose association with The Ledger + constituted his only claim to any status whatever, should profess + indifference to a summons from a man of Enderby’s position, + suggested affectation to Mr. Greenough’s suspicions. Young Mr. + Banneker’s head was already swelling, was it? Very well; in the + course of time and his duties, Mr. Greenough would apply suitable + remedies. + </p> + <p> + If Banneker were, indeed, taking a good conceit of himself from the + conspicuous position achieved so unexpectedly, the morning papers did + nothing to allay it. Most of them slurred over, as lightly as possible, + the fact of his journalistic connection; as in the evening editions, the + yacht feature was kept to the fore. There were two exceptions. The Ledger + itself, in a colorless and straightforward article, frankly identified the + hero of the episode, in the introductory sentence, as a member of its city + staff, and his host of the yacht as another journalist. But there was one + notable omission about which Banneker determined to ask Tommy Burt as soon + as he could see him. The Patriot, most sensational of the morning issues, + splurged wildly under the caption, “Yacht Guest Cleans Out Gang + Which Cowed Police.” The Sphere, in an editorial, demanded a + sweeping and honest investigation of the conditions which made life unsafe + in the greatest of cities. The Sphere was always demanding sweeping and + honest investigations, and not infrequently getting them. In Greenough’s + opinion this undesirable result was likely to be achieved now. To Mr. + Gordon he said: + </p> + <p> + “We ought to shut down all we can on the Banneker follow-up. An + investigation with our man as prosecuting witness would put us in the + position of trying to reform the police, and would play into the hands of + the Enderby crowd.” + </p> + <p> + The managing editor shook a wise and grizzled head. “If The Patriot + keeps up its whooping and The Sphere its demanding, the administration + will have to do something. After all, Mr. Greenough, things have become + pretty unendurable in the Murder Precinct.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true. But the signed statement of Banneker’s in + The Patriot—it’s really an interview faked up as a statement—is + a savage attack on the whole administration.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” remarked Mr. Gordon, “that they were + going to beat him up scientifically in the station house when Smith came + in and scared them out of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Banneker is pretty angry over it. You can’t blame him. + But that’s no reason why we should alienate the city + administration.... Then you think, Mr. Gordon, that we’ll have to + keep the story running?” + </p> + <p> + “I think, Mr. Greenough, that we’ll have to give the news,” + answered the managing editor austerely. “Where is Banneker now?” + </p> + <p> + “With Judge Enderby, I believe. In case of an investigation he won’t + be much use to us until it’s over.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t be helped,” returned Mr. Gordon serenely. “We’ll + stand by our man.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker had gone to the old-fashioned offices of Enderby and Enderby, in + a somewhat inimical frame of mind. Expectant of an invitation to aid the + Law Enforcement Society in cleaning up a pest-hole of crime, he was half + determined to have as little to do with it as possible. Overnight + consideration had developed in him the theory that the function of a + newspaper is informative, not reformative; that when a newspaper man has + correctly adduced and frankly presented the facts, his social as well as + his professional duty is done. Others might hew out the trail thus blazed; + the reporter, bearing his searchlight, should pass on to other dark spots. + All his theories evaporated as soon as he confronted Judge Enderby, + forgotten in the interest inspired by the man. + </p> + <p> + A portrait painter once said of Willis Enderby that his face was that of a + saint, illumined, not by inspiration, but by shrewdness. With his + sensitiveness to beauty of whatever kind, Banneker felt the extraordinary + quality of the face, beneath its grim outline, interpreting it from the + still depth of the quiet eyes rather than from the stern mouth and rather + tyrannous nose. He was prepared for an abrupt and cold manner, and was + surprised when the lawyer rose to shake hands, giving him a greeting of + courtly congratulation upon his courage and readiness. If the purpose of + this was to get Banneker to expand, as he suspected, it failed. The + visitor sensed the cold reserve behind the smile. + </p> + <p> + “Would you be good enough to run through this document?” + requested the lawyer, motioning Banneker to a seat opposite himself, and + handing him a brief synopsis of what the Law Enforcement Society hoped to + prove regarding police laxity. + </p> + <p> + Exercising that double faculty of mind which later became a part of the + Banneker legend in New York journalism, the reader, whilst absorbing the + main and quite simple points of the report, recalled an instance in which + an Atkinson and St. Philip ticket agent had been maneuvered into a posture + facing a dazzling sunset, and had adjusted his vision to find it focused + upon the barrel of a 45. Without suspecting the Judge of hold-up designs, + he nevertheless developed a parallel. Leaving his chair he walked over and + sat by the window. Halfway through the document, he quietly laid it aside + and returned the lawyer’s studious regard. + </p> + <p> + “Have you finished?” asked Judge Enderby. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not find it interesting?” + </p> + <p> + “Less interesting than your idea in giving it to me.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you conceive that to have been?” + </p> + <p> + By way of reply, Banneker cited the case of Tim Lake, the robbed agent. + “I think,” he added with a half smile, “that you and I + will do better in the open.” + </p> + <p> + “I think so, too. Mr. Banneker, are you honest?” + </p> + <p> + “Where I came from, that would be regarded as a trouble-hunter’s + question.” + </p> + <p> + “I ask you to regard it as important and take it without offense.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know about that,” returned Banneker gravely. + “We’ll see. Honest, you say. Are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why do you begin by doubting the honesty of a stranger against + whom you know nothing?” + </p> + <p> + “Legal habit, I dare say. Fortified, in this case, by your + association with The Ledger.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t a high opinion of my paper?” + </p> + <p> + “The very highest, of its adroitness and expertness. It can make the + better cause appear the worse with more skill than any other journal in + America.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought that was the specialty of lawyers.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Enderby accepted the touch with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “A lawyer is an avowed special pleader. He represents one side. A + newspaper is supposed to be without bias and to present the facts for the + information of its one client, the public. You will readily appreciate the + difference.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. Then you don’t consider The Ledger honest.” + </p> + <p> + Judge Enderby’s composed glance settled upon the morning’s + issue, spread upon his desk. “I have, I assume, the same opinion of + The Ledger’s honesty that you have.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind explaining that to me quite simply, so that I shall be + sure to understand it?” invited Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “You have read the article about your exploit?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that honest?” + </p> + <p> + “It is as accurate a job as I’ve ever known done.” + </p> + <p> + “Granted. Is it honest?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” answered the other after a pause. + “I intend to find out.” + </p> + <p> + “You intend to find out why it is so reticent on every point that + might impugn the police, I take it. I could tell you; but yours is the + better way. You gave the same interview to your own paper that you gave to + The Patriot, I assume. By the way, what a commentary on journalism that + the most scurrilous sheet in New York should have given the fullest and + frankest treatment to the subject; a paper written by the dregs of Park + Row for the reading of race-track touts and ignorant servant girls!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I gave them the same interview. It may have been crowded out—” + </p> + <p> + “For lack of space,” supplied Enderby in a tone which the + other heartily disliked. “Mr. Banneker, I thought that this was to + be in the open.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m wrong,” confessed the other. “I’ll know + by this evening why the police part was handled that way, and if it was + policy—” He stopped, considering. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” prompted the other. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go through to the finish with your committee.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re as good as pledged,” retorted the lawyer. + “I shall expect to hear from you.” + </p> + <p> + As soon as he could find Tommy Burt, Banneker put to him the direct + question. “What is the matter with the story as I gave it to you?” + </p> + <p> + Burt assumed an air of touching innocence. “The story had to be + handled with great care,” he explained blandly. + </p> + <p> + “Come off, Tommy. Didn’t you write the police part?” + </p> + <p> + Tommy Burl’s eyes denoted the extreme of candor. “It was + suggested to me that your views upon the police, while interesting and + even important, might be misunderstood.” + </p> + <p> + “Is <i>that</i> so? And who made the suggestion?” + </p> + <p> + “An all-wise city desk.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. Tommy.” + </p> + <p> + “The Morning Ledger,” volunteered Tommy Burt, “has a + high and well-merited reputation for its fidelity to the principles of + truth and fairness and to the best interests of the reading public. It + never gives the public any news to play with that it thinks the dear + little thing ought not to have. Did you say anything? No? Well; you meant + it. You’re wrong. The Ledger is the highest-class newspaper in New + York. We are the Elect!” + </p> + <p> + In his first revulsion of anger, Banneker was for going to Mr. Greenough + and having it out with him. If it meant his resignation, very good. He was + ready to look his job in the eye and tell it to go to hell. Turning the + matter over in his mind, however, he decided upon another course. So far + as the sensational episode of which he was the central figure went, he + would regard himself consistently as a private citizen with no + responsibility whatsoever to The Ledger. Let the paper print or suppress + what it chose; his attitude toward it would be identical with his attitude + toward the other papers. Probably the office powers would heartily + disapprove of his having any dealings with Enderby and his Law Enforcement + Society. Let them! He telephoned a brief but final message to Enderby and + Enderby. When, late that night, Mr. Gordon called him over and suggested + that it was highly desirable to let the whole affair drop out of public + notice as soon as the startling facts would permit, he replied that Judge + Enderby had already arranged to push an investigation. + </p> + <p> + “Doubtless,” observed the managing editor. “It is his + specialty. But without your evidence they can’t go far.” + </p> + <p> + “They can have my evidence.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gordon, who had been delicately balancing his letter-opener, now + delivered a whack of such unthinking ferocity upon his fat knuckle as to + produce a sharp pang. He gazed in surprise and reproach upon the aching + thumb and something of those emotions informed the regard which he turned + slowly upon Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gordon’s frame of mind was unenviable. The Inside Room, moved by + esoteric considerations, political and, more remotely, financial, had + issued to him a managerial ukase; no police investigation if it could be + avoided. Now, news was the guise in which Mr. Gordon sincerely worshiped + Truth, the God. But Mammon, in the Inside Room, held the purse-strings Mr. + Gordon had arrived at his honorable and well-paid position, not by wisdom + alone, but also by compromise. Here was a situation where news must give + way to the more essential interests of the paper. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Banneker,” he said, “that investigation will take a + great deal of your time; more, I fear, than the paper can afford to give + you.” + </p> + <p> + “They will arrange to put me on the stand in the mornings.” + </p> + <p> + “Further, any connection between a Ledger man and the Enderby + Committee is undesirable and injudicious.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry,” answered Banneker simply. “I’ve + said I’d go through with it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gordon selected a fresh knuckle for his modified drumming. “Have + you considered your duty to the paper, Mr. Banneker? If not, I advise you + to do so.” The careful manner, more than the words, implied threat. + </p> + <p> + Banneker leaned forward as if for a confidential communication, as he + lapsed into a gross Westernism: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gordon, <i>I</i> am paying for this round of drinks.” + </p> + <p> + Somehow the managing editor received the impression that this remark, + delivered in just that tone of voice and in its own proper environment, + was usually accompanied by a smooth motion of the hand toward the pistol + holster. + </p> + <p> + Banneker, after asking whether there was anything more, and receiving a + displeased shake of the head, went away. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said he to the waiting Tommy Burt, “they’ll + probably fire me.” + </p> + <p> + “Let ’em! You can get plenty of other jobs. But I don’t + think they will. Old Gordon is really with you. It makes him sick to have + to doctor news.” + </p> + <p> + Sleepless until almost morning, Banneker reviewed in smallest detail his + decision and the situation to which it had led. He thought that he had + taken the right course. He felt that Miss Camilla would approve. Judge + Enderby’s personality, he recognized, had exerted some influence + upon his decision. He had conceived for the lawyer an instinctive respect + and liking. There was about him a power of attraction, not readily + definable, but seeming mysteriously to assert some hidden claim from the + past. + </p> + <p> + Where had he seen that fine and still face before? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + Sequels of a surprising and diverse character followed Banneker’s + sudden fame. The first to manifest itself was disconcerting. On the + Wednesday following the fight on the pier, Mrs. Brashear intercepted him + in the hallway. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure we all admire what you did, Mr. Banneker,” she + began, in evident trepidation. + </p> + <p> + The subject of this eulogy murmured something deprecatory. + </p> + <p> + “It was very brave of you. Most praiseworthy. We appreciate it, all + of us. Yes, indeed. It’s very painful, Mr. Banneker. I never + expected to—to—indeed, I couldn’t have believed—” + Mrs. Brashear’s plump little hands made gestures so fluttery and + helpless that her lodger was moved to come to her aid. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter, Mrs. Brashear? What’s troubling you?” + </p> + <p> + “If you could make it convenient,” said she tremulously, + “when your month is up. I shouldn’t think of asking you + before.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you giving me notice?” he inquired in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t mind, please. The notoriety, the—the—your + being arrested. You were arrested, weren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. But the coroner’s jury cleared—” + </p> + <p> + “Such a thing never happened to any of my guests before. To have my + house in the police records,” wept Mrs. Brashear. “Really, Mr. + Banneker, really! You can’t know how it hurts one’s pride.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go next week,” said the evicted one, divided + between amusement and annoyance, and retired to escape another outburst of + grief. + </p> + <p> + Now that the matter was presented to him, he was rather glad to be + leaving. Quarters somewhere in mid-town, more in consonance with his + augmented income, suggested themselves as highly desirable. Since the + affray he had been the object of irksome attentions from his fellow + lodgers. It is difficult to say whether he found the more unendurable + young Wickert’s curiosity regarding details, Hainer’s pompous + adulation, or Lambert’s admiring but jocular attitude. The others + deemed it their duty never to refrain from some reference to the subject + wherever and whenever they encountered him. The one exception was Miss + Westlake. She congratulated him once, quietly but with warm sincerity; and + when next she came to his door, dealt with another topic. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Brashear tells me that you are leaving, Mr. Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she tell you why? That she has fired me out?” + </p> + <p> + “No. She didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker, a little surprised and touched at the landlady’s + reticence, explained. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well,” commented Miss Westlake, “you would soon + have outgrown us in any case.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not so sure. Where one lives doesn’t so much + matter. And I’m a creature of habit.” + </p> + <p> + “I think that you are going to be a very big man, Mr. Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” He smiled down at her. “Now, why?” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer his smile. “You’ve got power,” she + replied. “And you have mastered your medium—or gone far toward + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m grateful for your good opinion,” he began + courteously; but she broke in on him, shaking her head. + </p> + <p> + “If it were mine alone, it wouldn’t matter. It’s the + opinion of those who know. Mr. Banneker, I’ve been taking a liberty.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re the last person in the world to do that, I should + think,” he replied smilingly. + </p> + <p> + “But I have. You may remember my asking you once when those little + sketches that I retyped so often were to be published.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I never did anything with them.” + </p> + <p> + “I did. I showed them to Violet Thornborough. She is an old friend.” + </p> + <p> + Ignorant of the publication world outside of Park Row, Banneker did not + recognize a name, unknown to the public, which in the inner literary world + connoted all that was finest, most perceptive, most discriminating and + helpful in selective criticism. Miss Thornborough had been the first to + see and foster half of the glimmering and feeble radiances which had later + grown to be the manifest lights of the magazine and book world, thanks + largely to her aid and encouragement. The next name mentioned by Miss + Westlake was well enough known to Banneker, however. The critic, it + appears, had, with her own hands, borne the anonymous, typed copies to the + editorial sanctum of the foremost of monthlies, and, claiming a + prerogative, refused to move aside from the pathway of orderly business + until the Great Gaines himself, editor and autocrat of the publication, + had read at least one of them. So the Great Gaines indulged Miss + Thornborough by reading one. He then indulged himself by reading three + more. + </p> + <p> + “Your goose,” he pronounced, “is not fledged; but there + may be a fringe of swan feathers. Bring him to see me.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the faintest idea of who, what, or where he is,” + answered the insistent critic. + </p> + <p> + “Then hire a detective at our expense,” smiled the editor. + “And, please, as you go, can’t you lure away with you Mr. + Harvey Wheelwright, our most popular novelist, now in the reception-room + wishing us to publish his latest enormity? Us!” concluded the Great + Gaines sufficiently. + </p> + <p> + Having related the episode to its subject, Miss Westlake said diffidently: + “Do you think it was inexcusably impertinent of me?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I think it was very kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’ll go to see Mr. Gaines?” + </p> + <p> + “One of these days. When I get out of this present scrape. And I + hope you’ll keep on copying my Sunday stuff after I leave. Nobody + else would be so patient with my dreadful handwriting.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him a glance and a little flush of thankfulness. Matters had + begun to improve with Miss Westlake. But it was due to Banneker that she + had won through her time of desperation. Now, through his suggestion, she + was writing successfully, quarter and half column “general interest” + articles for the Woman’s Page of the Sunday Ledger. If she could in + turn help Banneker to recognition, part of her debt would be paid. As for + him, he was interested in, but not greatly expectant of, the Gaines + invitation. Still, if he were cast adrift from The Ledger because of + activity in the coming police inquiry, there was a possible port in the + magazine world. + </p> + <p> + Meantime there pressed the question of a home. Cressey ought to afford + help on that. He called the gilded youth on the telephone. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Providentially, as it might appear, a friend of Cressey’s, having + secured a diplomatic appointment, was giving up his bachelor apartment in + the select and central Regalton. + </p> + <p> + “Cheap as dirt,” said the enthusiastic Cressey, beaming at + Banneker over his cocktail that evening. “Two rooms and bath; fully + furnished, and you can get it for eighteen hundred a year.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite a raise from the five dollars a week I’ve been paying,” + smiled Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! You’ve got to live up to your new reputation. You’re + somebody, now, Banneker. All New York is talking about you. Why, I’m + afraid to say I know you for fear they’ll think I’m bragging.” + </p> + <p> + “All of which doesn’t increase my income,” pointed out + the other. + </p> + <p> + “It will. Just wait. One way or another you’ll capitalize that + reputation. That’s the way New York is.” + </p> + <p> + “That isn’t the way <i>I</i> am, however. I’ll + capitalize my brains and ability, if I’ve got ’em; not my + gun-play.” + </p> + <p> + “Your gun-play will advertise your brains and ability, then,” + retorted Cressey. “Nobody expects you to make a princely income + shooting up toughs on the water-front. But your having done it will put + you in the lime-light where people will notice you. And being noticed is + the beginning of success in this-man’s-town. I’m not sure it + isn’t the end, too. Just see how the head waiter fell all over + himself when you came in. I expect he’s telling that bunch at the + long table yonder who you are now.” + </p> + <p> + “Let him,” returned Banneker comfortably, his long-bred habit + of un-self-consciousness standing him in good stead. “They’ll + all forget it soon enough.” + </p> + <p> + As he glanced over at the group around the table, the man who was + apparently acting as host caught his eye and nodded in friendly fashion. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you know Marrineal, do you?” asked Cressey in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen him, but I’ve never spoken to him. He dines + sometimes in a queer little restaurant way downtown, just off the Swamp. + Who is he, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “Puzzle. Nobody in the clubs knows him. He’s a spender. Bit of + a rounder, too, I expect. Plays the Street, and beats it, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s the little beauty next him?” + </p> + <p> + “You a rising light of Park Row, and not know Betty Raleigh? She + killed ‘em dead in London in romantic comedy and now she’s come back + here to repeat.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. Opening to-night, isn’t she? I’ve got a seat.” + He looked over at Marrineal, who was apparently protesting against his + neighbor’s reversed wine-glass. “So that’s Mr. Marrineal’s + little style of game, is it?” He spoke crudely, for the apparition + of the girl was quite touching in its youth, and delight, and candor of + expression, whereas he had read into Marrineal’s long, handsome, and + blandly mature face a touch of the satyr. He resented the association. + </p> + <p> + “No; it isn’t,” replied Cressey promptly. “If it + is, he’s in the wrong pew. Miss Raleigh is straight as they make + ’em, from all I hear.” + </p> + <p> + “She looks it,” admitted Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “At that, she’s in a rather sporty lot. Do you know that chap + three seats to her left?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker considered the diner, a round-faced, high-colored, youthful man + of perhaps thirty-five, with a roving and merry eye. “No,” he + answered. “I never saw him before.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s Del Eyre,” remarked Cressey casually, and + appearing not to look at Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “A friend of yours?” The indifference of the tone indicated to + his companion either that Banneker did not identify Delavan Eyre by his + marriage, or that he maintained extraordinary control over himself, or + that the queer, romantic stories of Io Welland’s “passion in + the desert” were gross exaggerations. Cressey inclined to the latter + belief. + </p> + <p> + “Not specially,” he answered the question. “He belongs + to a couple of my clubs. Everybody likes Del; even Mrs. Del. But his pace + is too swift for me. Just at present he is furnishing transportation, + sixty horse-power, for Tarantina, the dancer who is featured in Betty + Raleigh’s show.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she over there with them?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. She wouldn’t be. It isn’t as sporty as all + that.” He rose to shake hands with a short, angular young man, + dressed to a perfection as accurate as Banneker’s own, and excelling + him in one distinctive touch, a coat-flower of gold-and-white such as no + other in New York could wear, since only in one conservatory was that + special orchid successfully grown. 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. + </p> + <p> + “We’re just having coffee,” said Banneker. “Will + you join us?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; I must go back to my party. I came over to express my + personal obligation to you for cleaning out that gang of wharf-rats. My + boat anchors off there. I hope to see you aboard her sometime.” + </p> + <p> + “You owe me no thanks,” returned Banneker good-humoredly. + “What I did was to save my own precious skin.” + </p> + <p> + “The effect was the same. After this the rats will suspect every man + of being a Banneker in disguise, and we shall have no more trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “You see!” remarked Cressey triumphantly as Masters went away. + “I told you you’d arrived.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you count a word of ordinary courtesy as so much?” + inquired Banneker, surprised and amused. + </p> + <p> + “From Junior? I certainly do. No Masters ever does anything without + having figured out its exact meaning in advance.” + </p> + <p> + “And what does this mean?” asked the other, still unimpressed. + </p> + <p> + “For one thing, that the Masters influence will be back of you, if + the police try to put anything over. For another, that you’ve got + the broadest door to society open to you, if Junior follows up his hint + about the yacht.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Make money.” + </p> + <p> + “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. It isn’t American.” + </p> + <p> + “The old man would smash your paper in six months.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe. Maybe not. Nobody has ever taken a shot at him yet. He may + be more vulnerable than he looks.... Speaking of money, I suppose I’d + better take that apartment. God knows how I’ll pay for it, + especially if I lose my job.” + </p> + <p> + “If you lose your job I’ll get you a better one on Wall Street + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “On the strength of Poultney Masters, Jr., shaking hands with me, I + suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Practically. It may not get into your newspapers, but the Street + will know all about it to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a queer city. And it’s a queer way to get on in + it, by being quick on the trigger. Well, I’m off for the theater.” + </p> + <p> + Between acts, Banneker, walking out to get air, was conscious of being the + object of comment and demonstration. He heard his name spoken in half + whispers; saw nods and jerks of the head; was an involuntary eavesdropper + upon a heated discussion; “That’s the man.”—“No; + it ain’t. The paper says he’s a big feller.”—“This + guy ain’t a reporter. Pipe his clothes.”—“Well, he’s + big if you size him right. Look at his shoulders.”—“I’ll + betcha ten he ain’t the man.” And an apologetic young fellow + ran after him to ask if he was not, in truth, Mr. Banneker of The Ledger. + Being no more than human, he experienced a feeling of mild excitation over + all this. But no sooner had the curtain risen on the second act than he + quite forgot himself and his notoriety in the fresh charm of the comedy, + and the delicious simplicity of Betty Raleigh as the heroine. That the + piece was destined to success was plain, even so early. As the curtain + fell again, and the star appeared, dragging after her a long, gaunt, + exhausted, alarmed man in horn-rimmed spectacles, who had been lurking in + a corner suffering from incipient nervous breakdown and illusions of + catastrophe, he being the author, the body of the house rose and shouted. + A hand fell on Banneker’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Come behind at the finish?” said a voice. + </p> + <p> + Turning, Banneker met the cynical and near-sighted eyes of Gurney, The + Ledger’s dramatic critic, with whom he had merely a nodding + acquaintance, as Gurney seldom visited the office except at off-hours. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I’d like to,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Little Betty spotted you and has been demanding that the management + bring you back for inspection.” + </p> + <p> + “The play is a big success, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “I give it a year’s run,” returned the critic + authoritatively. “Laurence has written it to fit Raleigh like a + glove. She’s all they said of her in London. And when she left here + a year ago, she was just a fairly good <i>ingénue</i>. However, she’s + got brains, which is the next best thing in the theatrical game to + marriage with the manager—or near-marriage.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker, considering Gurney’s crow-footed and tired leer, decided + that he did not like the critic much. + </p> + <p> + Back-of-curtain after a successful opening provides a hectic and scrambled + scene to the unaccustomed eye. Hastily presented to a few people, Banneker + drifted to one side and, seating himself on a wire chair, contentedly + assumed the role of onlooker. The air was full of laughter and greetings + and kisses; light-hearted, offhand, gratulatory kisses which appeared to + be the natural currency of felicitation. Betty Raleigh, lovely, flushed, + and athrill with nervous exaltation, flung him a smile as she passed, one + hand hooked in the arm of her leading man. + </p> + <p> + “You’re coming to supper with us later,” she called. + </p> + <p> + “Am I?” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. I’ve got something to ask you.” She spoke as + one expectant of unquestioning obedience: this was her night of glory and + power. + </p> + <p> + Whether he had been previously bidden in through Gurney, or whether this + chance word constituted his invitation, he did not know. Seeking + enlightenment upon the point, he discovered that the critic had + disappeared, to furnish his half-column for the morning issue. La + Tarantina, hearing his inquiry, gave him the news in her broken English. + The dancer, lithe, powerful, with the hideous feet and knotty legs typical + of her profession, turned her somber, questioning eyes on the stranger: + </p> + <p> + “You air Monsieur Ban-kerr, who shoot, n’est-ce-pas?” + she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Banneker,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “Weel you be ver’ good an’ shoot sahmbody for me?” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure,” he said, laughing; “if you’ll + plead for me with the jury.” + </p> + <p> + “Zen here he iss.” She stretched a long and, as it seemed, + blatantly naked arm into a group near by and drew forth the roundish man + whom Cressey had pointed out at Marrineal’s dinner party. “He + would be unfaithful to me, ziss one.” + </p> + <p> + “I? Never!” denied the accused. He set a kiss in the hollow of + the dancer’s wrist. “How d’ye do, Mr. Banneker,” + he added, holding out his hand. “My name is Eyre.” + </p> + <p> + “But yess!” cried the dancer. “He—what you say it?—he + r-r-r-rave over Miss R-r-raleigh. He make me jealous. He shall be shoot at + sunrice an’ I weel console me wiz his shooter.” + </p> + <p> + “Charming programme!” commented the doomed man. It struck + Banneker that he had probably been drinking a good deal, also that he was + a very likeable person, indeed. “If you don’t mind my asking, + where the devil did you learn to shoot like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, out West where I came from. I used to practice on the pine + trees at a little water-tank station called Manzanita”. + </p> + <p> + “Manzanita!” repeated the other. “By God!” He + swore softly, and stared at the other. + </p> + <p> + Banneker was annoyed. Evidently the gossip of which Io’s girl friend + had hinted that other night at Sherry’s had obtained wide currency. + Before the conversation could go any further, even had it been likely to + after that surprising check, one of the actors came over. He played the + part of an ex-cowboy, who, in the bar-room scene, shot his way out of + danger through a circle of gang-men, and he was now seeking from Banneker + ostensibly pointers, actually praise. + </p> + <p> + “Say, old man,” he began without introduction. “Gimme a + tip or two. How do you get your hand over for your gun without giving + yourself away?” + </p> + <p> + “Just dive for it, as you do in the play. You do it plenty quick + enough. You’d get the drop on me ten times out of ten,” + returned Banneker pleasantly, leaving the gratified actor with the + conviction that he had been talking with the coming dramatic critic of the + age. + </p> + <p> + For upwards of an hour there was carnival on the dismantling stage, + mingled with the hurried toil of scene-shifters and the clean-up gang. + Then the impromptu party began to disperse, Eyre going away with the + dancer, after coming to bid Banneker good-night, with a look of veiled + curiosity and interest which its object could not interpret. Banneker was + gathered into the <i>corps intime</i> of Miss Raleigh’s supper + party, including the author of the play, an elderly first-nighter, two or + three dramatic critics, Marrineal, who had drifted in, late, and half a + dozen of the company. The men outnumbered the women, as is usual in such + affairs, and Banneker found himself seated between the playwright and a + handsome, silent girl who played with distinction the part of an elderly + woman. There was wine in profusion, but he noticed that the player-folk + drank sparingly. Condition, he correctly surmised, was part of their stock + in trade. As it should be part of his also. + </p> + <p> + Late in the supper’s course, there was a shifting of seats, and he + was landed next to the star. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you’re bored stiff with talking about the shooting,” + she said, at once. + </p> + <p> + “I am, rather. Wouldn’t you be?” + </p> + <p> + “I? Publicity is the breath of life to us,” she laughed. + “You deal in it, so you don’t care for it.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s rather shrewd in you. I’m not sure that the + logic is sound.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyway, I’m not going to bore you with your fame. But I want + you to do something for me.” + </p> + <p> + “It is done,” he said solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “How prettily you pay compliments! There is to be a police + investigation, isn’t there?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably.” + </p> + <p> + “Could you get me in?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “Then I want to come when you’re on the stand.” + </p> + <p> + “Great goodness! Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, if you want a reason,” she answered mischievously, + “say that I want to bring good luck to your <i>première</i>, as you + brought it to mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll probably make a sorry showing. Perhaps you would give me + some training.” + </p> + <p> + She answered in kind, and the acquaintanceship was progressing most + favorably when a messenger of the theater manager’s office staff + appeared with early editions of the morning papers. Instantly every other + interest was submerged. + </p> + <p> + “Give me The Ledger,” demanded Betty. “I want to see + what Gurney says.” + </p> + <p> + “Something pleasant surely,” said Banneker. “He told me + that the play was an assured success.” + </p> + <p> + As she read, Betty’s vivacious face sparkled. Presently her + expression changed. She uttered a little cry of disgust and rage. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” inquired the author. + </p> + <p> + “Gurney is up to his smartnesses again,” she replied. “Listen. + Isn’t this enraging!” She read: + </p> + <p> + “As for the play itself, it is formed, fashioned, and finished in + the cleverest style of tailor-made, to Miss Raleigh’s charming + personality. One must hail Mr. Laurence as chief of our sartorial + playwrights. No actress ever boasted a neater fit. Can you not picture + him, all nice little enthusiasms and dainty devices, bustling about his + fair patroness, tape in hand, mouth bristling with pins, smoothing out a + wrinkle here, adjusting a line there, achieving his little <i>chef d’oeuvre</i> + of perfect tailoring? We have had playwrights who were blacksmiths, + playwrights who were costumers, playwrights who were musical-boxes, + playwrights who were, if I may be pardoned, garbage incinerators. It + remained, for Mr. Laurence to show us what can be done with scissors, + needle, and a nice taste in frills. + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s mean and shameful!” proclaimed the reader + in generous rage. + </p> + <p> + “But he gives you a splendid send-off, Miss Raleigh,” said her + leading man, who, reading over her shoulder, had discovered that he, too, + was handsomely treated. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care if he does!” cried Betty. “He’s + a pig!” + </p> + <p> + Her manager, possessed of a second copy of The Ledger, now made a weighty + contribution to the discussion. “Just the same, this’ll help + sell out the house. It’s full of stuff we can lift to paper the town + with.” + </p> + <p> + He indicated several lines heartily praising Miss Raleigh and the cast, + and one which, wrenched from its satirical context, was made to give an + equally favorable opinion of the play. Something of Banneker’s + astonishment at this cavalier procedure must have been reflected in his + face, for Marrineal, opposite, turned to him with a look of amusement. + </p> + <p> + “What’s your view of that, Mr. Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “Mine?” said Banneker promptly. “I think it’s + crooked. What’s yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Still quick on the trigger,” murmured the other, but did not + answer the return query. + </p> + <p> + Replies in profusion came from the rest, however. “It isn’t + any crookeder than the review.”—“D’you call that + fair criticism!”—“Gurney! He hasn’t an honest hair + in his head.”—“Every other critic is strong for it; this + is the only knock.”—“What did Laurence ever do to + Gurney?” + </p> + <p> + Out of the welter of angry voices came Betty Raleigh’s clear speech, + addressed to Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry, Mr. Banneker; I’d forgotten that The Ledger + is your paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, The Ledger ain’t any worse than the rest of ’em, + take it day in and day out,” the manager remarked, busily penciling + apposite texts for advertising, on the margin of Gurney’s critique. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t fair,” continued the star. “A man spends + a year working over a play—it was more than a year on this, wasn’t + it, Denny?” she broke off to ask the author. + </p> + <p> + Laurence nodded. He looked tired and a little bored, Banneker thought. + </p> + <p> + “And a critic has a happy thought and five minutes to think it over, + and writes something mean and cruel and facetious, and perhaps undoes a + whole year’s work. Is that right?” + </p> + <p> + “They ought to bar him from the theater,” declared one of the + women in the cast. + </p> + <p> + “And what do you think of <i>that</i>?” inquired Marrineal, + still addressing Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Banneker laughed. “Admit only those who wear the bright and + burnished badge of the Booster,” he said. “Is that the idea?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody objects to honest criticism,” began Betty Raleigh + heatedly, and was interrupted by a mild but sardonic “Hear! Hear!” + from one of the magazine reviewers. + </p> + <p> + “Honest players don’t object to honest criticism, then,” + she amended. “It’s the unfairness that hurts.” + </p> + <p> + “All of which appears to be based on the assumption that it is + impossible for Mr. Gurney honestly to have disliked Mr. Laurence’s + play,” pointed out Banneker. “Now, delightful as it seemed to + me, I can conceive that to other minds—” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he could honestly dislike it,” put in the + playwright hastily. “It isn’t that.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the mean, slurring way he treated it,” said the + star “Mr. Banneker, just what did he say to you about it?” + </p> + <p> + Swiftly there leapt to his recollection the critic’s words, at the + close of the second act. “It’s a relief to listen for once to + comedy that is sincere and direct.” ... Then why, why—“He + said that you were all that the play required and the play was all that + you required,” he answered, which was also true, but another part of + the truth. He was not minded to betray his associate. + </p> + <p> + “He’s rotten,” murmured the manager, now busy on the + margin of another paper. “But I dunno as he’s any rottener + than the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “On behalf of the profession of journalism, we thank you, Bezdek,” + said one of the critics. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t mind old Bez,” put in the elderly first-nighter. + “He always says what he thinks he means, but he usually doesn’t + mean it.” + </p> + <p> + “That is perhaps just as well,” said Banneker quite quietly, + “if he means that The Ledger is not straight.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say The Ledger. I said Gurney. He’s crooked as + a corkscrew’s hole.” + </p> + <p> + There was a murmur of protest and apprehension, for this was going rather + too far, which Banneker’s voice stilled. “Just a minute. By + that you mean that he takes bribes?” + </p> + <p> + “Naw!” snorted Bezdek. + </p> + <p> + “That he’s influenced by favoritism, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say so, did I?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve said either too little or too much.” + </p> + <p> + “I can clear this up, I think,” proffered the elderly + first-nighter, in his courteous voice. “Mr. Gurney is perhaps more + the writer than the critic. He is carried away by the felicitous phrase.” + </p> + <p> + “He’d rather be funny than fair,” said Miss Raleigh + bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “The curse of dramatic criticism,” murmured a magazine + representative. + </p> + <p> + “Rotten,” said Bezdek doggedly. “Crooked. Tryin’ + to be funny at other folks’ expense. <i>I</i>’ll give his tail + a twist!” By which he meant Mr. Gurney’s printed words. + </p> + <p> + “Apropos of the high cult of honesty,” remarked Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “The curse of all journalism,” put in Laurence. “The + temptation to be effective at the expense of honesty.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you think of <i>that</i>?” inquired the cheerful + Marrineal, still directing his query to Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s rather a large order. Why do you keep asking my + opinion?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I suspect that you still bring a fresh mind to bear on + these matters.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker rose, and bade Betty Raleigh good-night. She retained his hand in + hers, looking up at him with a glint of anxiety in her weary, childlike + eyes. “Don’t mind what we’ve said,” she appealed + to him. “We’re all a little above ourselves. It’s always + so after an opening.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mind at all,” he returned gravely: “unless + it’s true.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, it’s true right enough,” she answered dispiritedly. + “Don’t forget about the investigation. And don’t let + them dare to put you on on a matinée day.” + </p> + <p> + Betty Raleigh was a conspicuous figure, at not one but half a dozen + sessions of the investigation, which wound through an accelerating and + sensational course, with Banneker as the chief figure. He was an + extraordinary witness, ready, self-possessed, good-humored under the + heckling of the politician lawyer who had claimed and received the right + to appear, on the ground that his police clients might be summoned later + on a criminal charge. + </p> + <p> + Before the proceedings were over, a complete overturn in the city + government was foreshadowed, and it became evident that Judge Enderby + might either head the movement as its candidate, or control it as its + leader. Nobody, however, knew what he wished or intended politically. + Every now and again in the progress of the hearings, Banneker would + surprise on the lawyer’s face an expression which sent his memory + questing fruitlessly for determination of that elusive likeness, + flickering dimly in the past. + </p> + <p> + Banneker’s own role in the investigation kept him in the headlines; + at times put him on the front page. Even The Ledger could only minimize, + not suppress, his dominating and picturesque part. + </p> + <p> + But there was another and less pleasant sequel to the shooting, in its + effect upon the office status. Though he was a “space-man” + now, dependent for his earnings upon the number of columns weekly which he + had in the paper, and ostensibly equipped to handle matter of importance, + a long succession of the pettiest kind of assignments was doled out to him + by the city desk: obituary notices of insignificant people, small police + items, tipsters’ yarns, routine jobs such as ship news, police + headquarters substitution, even the minor courts usually relegated to the + fifteen or twenty-dollar-a-week men. Or, worst and most grinding ordeal of + a reporter’s life, he was kept idle at his desk, like a misbehaving + boy after school, when all the other men had been sent out. One week his + total space came to but twenty-eight dollars odd. What this meant was + plain enough; he was being disciplined for his part in the investigation. + </p> + <p> + Out of the open West which, under the rigor of the game, keeps its temper + and its poise, Banneker had brought the knack of setting his teeth and + smiling so serenely that one never even perceived the teeth to be set + behind the smile. This ability stood him in good stead now. In his time of + enforced leisure he bethought himself of the sketches which Miss Westlake + had typed. With his just and keen perception, he judged them not to be + magazine matter. But they might do as “Sunday stuff.” He + turned in half a dozen of them to Mr. Homans. When next he saw them they + were lying, in uncorrected proof, on the managing editor’s desk + while Mr. Gordon gently rapped his knuckles over them. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you get the idea for these, Mr. Banneker?” he + asked. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. It came to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you care to sign them?” + </p> + <p> + “Sign them?” repeated the reporter in surprise, for this was a + distinction afforded to only a choice few on the conservative Ledger. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’m going to run them on the editorial page. Do us some + more and keep them within the three-quarters. What’s your full name?” + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to sign them ‘Eban,’” answered the + other, after some thought. “And thank you.” + </p> + <p> + Assignments or no assignments, thereafter Banneker was able to fill his + idle time. Made adventurous by the success of the “Vagrancies,” + he next tried his hand at editorials on light or picturesque topics, and + with satisfying though not equal results, for here he occasionally + stumbled upon the hard-rooted prejudices of the Inside Office, and beheld + his efforts vanish into the irreclaimable limbo of the scrap-basket. + Nevertheless, at ten dollars per column for this kind of writing, he + continued to make a decent space bill, and clear himself of the doldrums + where the waning of the city desk’s favor had left him. All that he + could now make he needed, for his change of domicile had brought about a + corresponding change of habit and expenditure into which he slipped + imperceptibly. To live on fifteen dollars a week, plus his own small + income, which all went for “extras,” had been simple, at Mrs. + Brashear’s. To live on fifty at the Regalton was much more of a + problem. Banneker discovered that he was a natural spender. The discovery + caused him neither displeasure nor uneasiness. He confidently purposed to + have money to spend; plenty of it, as a mere, necessary concomitant to + other things that he was after. Good reporters on space, working + moderately, made from sixty to seventy-five dollars a week. Banneker set + himself a mark of a hundred dollars. He intended to work very hard ... if + Mr. Greenough would give him a chance. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Greenough’s distribution of the day’s news continued to be + distinctly unfavorable to the new space-man. The better men on the staff + began to comment on the city desk’s discrimination. Banneker had, + for a time, shone in heroic light: his feat had been honorable, not only + to The Ledger office, but to the entire craft of reporting. In the + investigation he had borne himself with unexceptionable modesty and + equanimity. That he should be “picked on” offended that + generous <i>esprit de corps</i> which was natural to the office. Tommy + Burt was all for referring the matter to Mr. Gordon. + </p> + <p> + “You mind your own business, Tommy,” said Banneker placidly. + “Our friend the Joss will stick his foot into a gopher hole yet.” + </p> + <p> + The assignment that afforded Banneker his chance was of the most + unpromising. An old builder, something of a local character over in the + Corlears Hook vicinity, had died. The Ledger, Mr. Greenough informed + Banneker, in his dry, polite manner, wanted “a sufficient obit” + of the deceased. 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. From one mouth to + another they passed the word of his shrewd dealings, of his good-will to + his neighbors, of his ripe judgment, of his friendliness to all sound + things and sound men, of his shy, sly charities, of the thwarted romance, + which, many years before, had left him lonely but unembittered; and out of + it Banneker, with pen too slow for his eager will, wove not a two-stick + obit, but a rounded column shot through with lights that played upon the + little group of characters, the living around the dead, like sunshine upon + an ancient garden. + </p> + <p> + Even Mr. Greenough congratulated Banneker, the next morning. In the + afternoon mail came a note from Mr. Gaines of The New Era monthly. That + perspicuous editor had instantly identified the style of the article with + that of the “Eban” series, part of which he had read in + typograph. He wrote briefly but warmly of the work: and would the writer + not call and see him soon? + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the reporter might have accepted the significant invitation + promptly, as he at first intended. But on the following morning he found + in his box an envelope under French stamp, inscribed with writing which, + though he had seen but two specimens of it, drove everything else out of + his tumultuous thoughts. He took it, not to his desk, but to a side room + of the art department, unoccupied at that hour, and opened it with chilled + and fumbling hands. + </p> + <p> + Within was a newspaper clipping, from a Paris edition of an American + daily. It gave a brief outline of the battle on the pier. In pencil on the + margin were these words: + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember practicing, that day, among the pines? I’m so + proud! Io.” + </p> + <p> + He read it again. The last sentence affected him with a sensation of + dizziness. Proud! Of his deed! It gave him the feeling that she had + reclaimed, reappropriated him. No! That she had never for a moment + released him. In a great surge, sweeping through his veins, he felt the + pressure of her breast against his, the strong enfoldment of her arms, her + breath upon his lips. He tore envelope and clipping into fragments. + </p> + <p> + By one of those strange associations of linked memory, such as “clangs + and flashes for a drowning man,” he sharply recalled where he had + seen Willis Enderby before. His was the face in the photograph to which + Camilla Van Arsdale had turned when death stretched out a hand toward her. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + While the police inquiry was afoot, Banneker was, perforce, often late in + reporting for duty, the regular hour being twelve-thirty. Thus the + idleness which the city desk had imposed upon him was, in a measure, + justified. On a Thursday, when he had been held in conference with Judge + Enderby, he did not reach The Ledger office until after two. Mr. Greenough + was still out for luncheon. No sooner had Banneker entered the swinging + gate than Mallory called to him. On the assistant city editor’s face + was a peculiar expression, half humorous, half dubious, as he said: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Greenough has left an assignment for you.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Banneker, stretching out his hand for the + clipping or slip. None was forthcoming. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a tip,” explained Mallory. “It’s from + a pretty convincing source. The gist of it is that the Delavan Eyres have + separated and a divorce is impending. You know, of course, who the Eyres + are.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve met Eyre.” + </p> + <p> + “That so? Ever met his wife?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Banneker, in good faith. + </p> + <p> + “No; you wouldn’t have, probably. They travel different paths. + Besides, she’s been practically living abroad. She’s a + stunner. It’s big society stuff, of course. The best chance of + landing the story is from Archie Densmore, her half-brother. The + international polo-player, you know. You’ll find him at The Retreat, + down on the Jersey coast.” + </p> + <p> + The Retreat Banneker had heard of as being a bachelor country club whose + distinguishing marks were a rather Spartan athleticism, and a more stiffly + hedged exclusiveness than any other social institution known to the <i>élite</i> + of New York and Philadelphia, between which it stood midway. + </p> + <p> + “Then I’m to go and ask him,” said Banneker slowly, + “whether his sister is suing for divorce?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” confirmed Mallory, a trifle nervously. “Find out + who’s to be named, of course. I suppose it’s that new dancer, + though there have been others. And there was a quaint story about some + previous attachment of Mrs. Eyre’s: that might have some bearing.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m to ask her brother about that, too?” + </p> + <p> + “We want the story,” answered Mallory, almost petulantly. + </p> + <p> + On the trip down into Jersey the reporter had plenty of time to consider + his unsavory task. Some one had to do this kind of thing, so long as the + public snooped and peeped and eavesdropped through the keyhole of print at + the pageant of the socially great: this he appreciated and accepted. But + he felt that it ought to be some one other than himself—and, at the + same time, was sufficiently just to smile at himself for his illogical + attitude. + </p> + <p> + A surprisingly good auto was found in the town of his destination, to + speed him to the stone gateway of The Retreat. The guardian, always on + duty there, passed him with a civil word, and a sober-liveried flunkey at + the clubhouse door, after a swift, unobtrusive consideration of his + clothes and bearing, took him readily for granted, and said that Mr. + Densmore would be just about going on the polo field for practice. Did the + gentleman know his way to the field? Seeing the flag on the stable, + Banneker nodded, and walked over. A groom pointed out a spare, powerful + looking young man with a pink face, startlingly defined by a straight + black mustache and straighter black eyebrows, mounting a light-built roan, + a few rods away. Banneker accosted him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my name is Densmore,” he answered the visitor’s + accost. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a reporter from The Ledger,” explained Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “A reporter?” Mr. Densmore frowned. “Reporters aren’t + allowed here, except on match days. How did you get in?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody stopped me,” answered the visitor in an expressionless + tone. + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter,” said the other, “since you’re + here. What is it; the international challenge?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + For a time there was a measured silence. Mr. Densmore’s heavy brows + seemed to jut outward and downward toward the questioner. + </p> + <p> + “You came out here from New York to ask me that?” he said + presently. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Anything else?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Who is named as co-respondent? And will there be a defense, or + a counter-suit?” + </p> + <p> + “A counter-suit,” repeated the man in the saddle quietly. + “I wonder if you realize what you’re asking?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m trying to get the news,” said Banneker doggedly + striving to hold to an ideal which momentarily grew more sordid and + tawdry. + </p> + <p> + “And I wonder if you realize how you ought to be answered.” + </p> + <p> + Yes; Banneker realized, with a sick realization. But he was not going to + admit it. He kept silence. + </p> + <p> + “If this polo mallet were a whip, now,” observed Mr. Densmore + meditatively. “A dog-whip, for preference.” + </p> + <p> + Under the shameful threat Banneker’s eyes lightened. Here at least + was something he could face like a man. His undermining nausea mitigated. + </p> + <p> + “What then?” he inquired in tones as level as those of his + opponent. + </p> + <p> + “Why, then I’d put a mark on you. A reporter’s mark.” + </p> + <p> + “I think not.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh; you think not?” The horseman studied him negligently. + Trained to the fineness of steel in the school of gymnasium, field, and + tennis court, he failed to recognize in the man before him a type as + formidable, in its rugged power, as his own. “Or perhaps I’d + have the grooms do it for me, before they threw you over the fence.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be safer,” allowed the other, with a smile that + surprised the athlete. + </p> + <p> + “Safer?” he repeated. “I wasn’t thinking of + safety.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Densmore smiled. “You!” he said contemptuously. “Kill, + eh? Did you ever kill any one?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Under their jet brows Densmore’s eyes took on a peculiar look of + intensity. “A Ledger reporter,” he murmured. “See here! + Is your name Banneker, by any chance?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re the man who cleared out the wharf-gang.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Densmore had been born and brought up in a cult to which courage is the + basic, inclusive virtue for mankind, as chastity is for womankind. To his + inground prejudice a man who was simply and unaffectedly brave must by + that very fact be fine and admirable. And this man had not only shown an + iron nerve, but afterward, in the investigation, which Densmore had + followed, he had borne himself with the modesty, discretion, and good + taste of the instinctive gentleman. The poloist was almost pathetically at + a loss. When he spoke again his whole tone and manner had undergone a + vital transformation. + </p> + <p> + “But, good God!” he cried in real distress and bewilderment, + “a fellow who could do what you did, stand up to those gun-men in + the dark and alone, to be garbaging around asking rotten, prying questions + about a man’s sister! No! I don’t get it.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker felt the blood run up into his face, under the sting of the other’s + puzzled protest, as it would never have done under open contempt or + threat. A miserable, dull hopelessness possessed him. “It’s + part of the business,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “Then it’s a rotten business,” retorted the horseman. + “Do you <i>have</i> to do this?” + </p> + <p> + “Somebody has to get the news.” + </p> + <p> + “News! Scavenger’s filth. See here, Banneker, I’m sorry + I roughed you about the whip. But, to ask a man questions about the women + of his own family—No: I’m <i>damned</i> if I get it.” He + lost himself in thought, and when he spoke again it was as much to himself + as to the man on the ground. “Suppose I did make a frank statement: + you can never trust the papers to get it straight, even if they mean to, + which is doubtful. And there’s Io’s name smeared all over—Hel-lo! + What’s the matter, now?” For his horse had shied away from an + involuntary jerk of Banneker’s muscles, responsive to electrified + nerves, so sharply as to disturb the rider’s balance. + </p> + <p> + “What name did you say?” muttered Banneker, involuntarily. + </p> + <p> + “Io. My foster-sister’s nickname. Irene Welland, she was. You’re + a queer sort of society reporter if you don’t know that.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not a society reporter.” + </p> + <p> + “But you know Mrs. Eyre?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; in a way,” returned Banneker, gaining command of + himself. “Officially, you might say. She was in a railroad wreck + that I stage-managed out West. I was the local agent.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ve heard about you,” replied Densmore with + interest, though he had heard only what little Io had deemed it advisable + that he should know. “You helped my sister when she was hurt. We owe + you something for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Official duty.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He was off, leaving Banneker with brain awhirl. To steady himself against + this sudden flood of memory and circumstance, Banneker strove to focus his + attention upon the technique of the horse and his rider. When they + returned he said at once: + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to play that pony?” + </p> + <p> + The horseman looked mildly surprised. “After he’s learned a + bit more. Shapes up well, don’t you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Speed him up to me and give him a sharp twist to the right, will + you?” + </p> + <p> + Accepting the suggestion without comment, Densmore cantered away and + brought the roan down at speed. To the rider, his mount seemed to make the + sudden turn perfectly. But Banneker stepped out and examined the off + forefoot with a dubious face. + </p> + <p> + “Breaks a little there,” he stated seriously. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The implication of this expert view aroused Densmore’s curiosity. + “You’ve played,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No: I’ve never played. I’ve knocked the ball about a + little.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Out in Santa Barbara. With the stable-boys.” + </p> + <p> + So simply was it said that Densmore returned, quite as simply: “Were + you a stable-boy?” + </p> + <p> + “No such luck, then. Just a kid, out of a job.” + </p> + <p> + Densmore dismounted, handed reins and mallet to the visitor and said, + “Try a shot or two.” + </p> + <p> + Slipping his coat and waistcoat, Banneker mounted and urged the pony after + the ball which the other sent spinning out across the field. He made a + fairly creditable cut away to the left, following down and playing back + moderately. While his mallet work was, naturally, uncertain, he played + with a full, easy swing and in good form. But it was his horsemanship + which specially commended itself to the critical eye of the connoisseur. + </p> + <p> + “Ridden range, haven’t you?” inquired the poloist when + the other came in. + </p> + <p> + “Quite a bit of it, in my time.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, I’ll tell you,” said Densmore, employing his + favorite formula. “There’ll be practice later. It’s an + off day and we probably won’t have two full teams. Let me rig you + out, and you try it.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker shook his head. “I’m here on business. I’m a + reporter with a story to get.” + </p> + <p> + “All right; it’s up to a reporter to stick until he gets his + news,” agreed the other. “You dismiss your taxi, and stay out + here and dine, and I’ll run you back to town myself. And at nine o’clock + I’ll answer your question and answer it straight.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker, gazing longingly at the bright turf of the field, accepted. + </p> + <p> + Polo is to The Retreat what golf is to the average country club. The news + that Archie Densmore had a new player down for a try-out brought to the + side-lines a number of the old-time followers of the game, including + Poultney Masters, the autocrat of Wall Street and even more of The + Retreat, whose stables he, in large measure, supported. In the third + period, the stranger went in at Number Three on the pink team. He played + rather poorly, but there was that in his style which encouraged the + enthusiasts. + </p> + <p> + “He’s material,” grunted old Masters, blinking his + pendulous eyelids, as Banneker, accepting the challenge of Jim Maitland, + captain of the opposing team and roughest of players, for a ride-off, + carried his own horse through by sheer adroitness and daring, and left the + other rolling on the turf. “Anybody know who he is?” + </p> + <p> + “Heard Archie call him Banker, I think,” answered one of the + great man’s hangers-on. + </p> + <p> + Later, Banneker having changed, sat in an angled window of the clubhouse, + waiting for his host, who had returned from the stables. A group of + members entering the room, and concealed from him by an L, approached the + fireplace talking briskly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> say there’s ridin’ and ridin’,” + proclaimed Kirke. “Some fellers ride like jockeys; some fellers ride + like cowboys; some fellers ride like gentlemen. I say this reporter feller + don’t ride like a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, slush!” said another discourteously. “What is + riding like a gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + Kirke reverted to the set argument of his type. “I’ll betcha a + hundred he don’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s to settle such a bet?” + </p> + <p> + “Leave it to Maitland,” said somebody. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll leave it to Archie Densmore if you like,” offered + the bettor belligerently. + </p> + <p> + “Leave it to Mr. Masters,” suggested Kirke. + </p> + <p> + “Why not leave it to the horse?” + </p> + <p> + The suggestion, coming in a level and unconcerned tone from the depths of + the chair in which Banneker was seated, produced an electrical effect. + Banneker spoke only because the elderly member had walked over to the + window, and he saw that he must be discovered in another moment. Out of + the astonished silence came the elderly member’s voice, gentle and + firm. + </p> + <p> + “Are you the visitor we have been so frankly discussing?” + </p> + <p> + “I assume so.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it rather unfortunate that you did not make your + presence known sooner?” + </p> + <p> + “I hoped that I might have a chance to slip out unseen and save you + embarrassment.” + </p> + <p> + The other came forward at once with hand outstretched. “My name is + Forster,” he said. “You’re Mr. Banker, aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Banneker, shaking hands. For various reasons it + did not seem worth while to correct the slight error. + </p> + <p> + “Look out! Here’s the old man,” said some one. + </p> + <p> + Poultney Masters plodded in, his broad paunch shaking with chuckles. + “‘Leave it to the horse,’” he mumbled + appreciatively. “‘Leave it to the horse.’ It’s + good. It’s damned good. The right answer. Who but the horse should + know whether a man rides like a gentleman! Where’s young Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + Forster introduced the two. “You’ve got the makings of a + polo-man in you,” decreed the great man. “Where are you + playing?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never really played. Just practiced.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you ought to be with us. Where’s Densmore? We’ll + put you up and have you in by the next meeting.” + </p> + <p> + “A reporter in The Retreat!” protested Kirke who had proffered + the bet. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” snapped old Poultney Masters. “Got any + objections?” + </p> + <p> + Since the making or marring of his fortunes, like those of hundreds of + other men, lay in the pudgy hollow of the financier’s hand, poor + Kirke had no objections which he could not and did not at once swallow. + The subject of the flattering offer had, however. + </p> + <p> + “I’m much obliged,” said he. “But I couldn’t + join this club. Can’t afford it.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t afford not to. It’s a chance not many young + fellows from nowhere get.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you don’t know what a reporter’s earnings are, + Mr. Masters.” + </p> + <p> + The rest of the group had drifted away, in obedience, Banneker suspected, + to some indication given by Masters which he had not perceived. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t be a reporter long. Opportunities will open out for + a young fellow of your kind.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of opportunities?” inquired Banneker curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Wall Street, for example.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I’d like the game. Writing is my line. I’m + going to stick to it.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a fool,” barked Masters. + </p> + <p> + “That is a word I don’t take from anybody,” stated + Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> don’t take? Who the—” The raucous + snarl broke into laughter, as the other leaned abruptly forward. “Banneker,” + he said, “have you got <i>me</i> covered?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker laughed, too. Despite his brutal assumption of autocracy, it was + impossible not to like this man. “No,” he answered. “I + didn’t expect to be held up here. So I left my gun.” + </p> + <p> + “You did a job on that pier,” affirmed the other. “But + you’re a fool just the same—if you’ll take it with a + smile.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll think it over,” answered Banneker, as Densmore + entered. + </p> + <p> + “Come and see me at the office,” invited Masters as he + shambled pursily away. + </p> + <p> + Across the dining-table Densmore said to his guest: “So the Old Boy + wants to put you up here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “That means a sure election.” + </p> + <p> + “But even if I could afford it, I’d get very little use of the + club. You see, I have only one day off a week.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a rotten business, for sure!” said Densmore + sympathetically. “Couldn’t you get on night work, so you could + play afternoons?” + </p> + <p> + “Play polo?” Banneker laughed. “My means would hardly + support one pony.” + </p> + <p> + “That’ll be all right,” returned the other nonchalantly. + “There are always fellows glad to lend a mount to a good player. And + you’re going to be that.” + </p> + <p> + The high lust of the game took and shook Banneker for a dim moment. Then + he recovered himself. “No. I couldn’t do that.” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s leave it this way, then. Whether you join now or not, + come down once in a while as my guest, and fill in for the scratch + matches. Later you may be able to pick up a few nags, cheap.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll think it over,” said Banneker, as he had said to + old Poultney Masters. + </p> + <p> + Not until after the dinner did Banneker remind his host of their + understanding. “You haven’t forgotten that I’m here on + business?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I haven’t. I’m going to answer your question for + publication. Mrs. Eyre has not the slightest intention of suing for + divorce.” + </p> + <p> + “About the separation?” + </p> + <p> + “No. No separation, either. Io is traveling with friends and will be + back in a few months.” + </p> + <p> + “That is authoritative?” + </p> + <p> + “You can quote me, if you like, though I’d rather nothing were + published, of course. And I give you my personal word that it’s + true.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s quite enough.” + </p> + <p> + “So much for publication. What follows is private: just between you + and me.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker nodded. After a ruminative pause Densmore asked an abrupt + question. + </p> + <p> + “You found my sister after the wreck, didn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well; she found me.” + </p> + <p> + “Was she hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Badly?” + </p> + <p> + “I think not. There was some concussion of the brain, I suppose. She + was quite dazed.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you call a doctor?” + </p> + <p> + “No. She wouldn’t have one.” + </p> + <p> + “You know Miss Van Arsdale, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s the best friend I’ve got in the world,” + returned Banneker, so impulsively that his interrogator looked at him + curiously before continuing: + </p> + <p> + “Did you see Io at her house?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; frequently,” replied Banneker, wondering to what this + all tended, but resolved to be as frank as was compatible with discretion. + </p> + <p> + “How did she seem?” + </p> + <p> + “She was as well off there as she could be anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But how did she seem? Mentally, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that! The dazed condition cleared up at once.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I were sure that it had ever cleared up,” muttered + Densmore. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t you be sure?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to be frank with you because I think you may be + able to help me with a clue. Since she came back from the West, Io has + been unlike herself. The family has never understood her marriage with Del + Eyre. She didn’t really care for Del. [To his dismay, Banneker here + beheld the glowing tip of his cigar perform sundry involuntary dips and + curves. He hoped that his face was under better control.] The marriage was + a fizzle. I don’t believe it lasted a month, really. Eyre had always + been a chaser, though he did straighten out when he married Io. He really + was crazy about her; but when she chucked him, he went back to his old + hunting grounds. One can understand that. But Io; that’s different. + She’s always played the game before. With Del, I don’t think + she quite did. She quit: that’s the plain fact of it. Just tired of + him. No other cause that I can find. Won’t get a divorce. Doesn’t + want it. So there’s no one else in the case. It’s queer. It’s + mighty queer. And I can’t help thinking that the old jar to her + brain—” + </p> + <p> + “Have you suggested that to her?” asked Banneker as the other + broke off to ruminate mournfully. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She only laughed. Then she said that poor old Del wasn’t + at fault except for marrying her in the face of a warning. I don’t + know what she meant by it; hanged if I do. But, you see, it’s quite + true: there’ll be no divorce or separation.... You’re sure she + was quite normal when you last saw her at Miss Van Arsdale’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. If you want confirmation, why not write Miss Van + Arsdale yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I hardly think I’ll do that.... Now as to that gray you + rode, I’ve got a chance to trade him.” And the talk became all + of horse, which is exclusive and rejective of other interests, even of + women. + </p> + <p> + Going back in the train, Banneker reviewed the crowding events of the day. + At the bottom of his thoughts lay a residue, acid and stinging, the shame + of the errand which had taken him to The Retreat, and which the memory of + what was no less than a personal triumph could not submerge. That he, + Errol Banneker, whose dealings with all men had been on the straight and + level status of self-respect, should have taken upon him the ignoble task + of prying into intimate affairs, of meekly soliciting the most private + information in order that he might make his living out of it—not + different in kind from the mendicancy which, even as a hobo, he had + scorned—and that, at the end, he should have discerned Io Welland as + the object of his scandal-chase; that fermented within him like something + turned to foulness. + </p> + <p> + At the office he reported “no story.” Before going home he + wrote a note to the city desk. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + Impenetrability of expression is doubtless a valuable attribute to a joss. + Otherwise so many josses would not display it. Upon the stony and placid + visage of Mr. Greenough, never more joss-like than when, on the morning + after Banneker went to The Retreat, he received the resultant note, the + perusal thereof produced no effect. Nor was there anything which might + justly be called an expression, discernible between Mr. Greenough’s + cloven chin-tip and Mr. Greenough’s pale fringe of hair, when, as + Banneker entered the office at noon, he called the reporter to him. + Banneker’s face, on the contrary, displayed a quite different + impression; that of amiability. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing in the Eyre story, Mr. Banneker!” + </p> + <p> + “Not a thing.” + </p> + <p> + “You saw Mr. Densmore?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Would he talk?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he made a statement.” + </p> + <p> + “It didn’t appear in the paper.” + </p> + <p> + “There was nothing to it but unqualified denial.” + </p> + <p> + “I see; I see. That’s all, Mr. Banneker.... Oh, by the way.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker, who had set out for his desk, turned back. + </p> + <p> + “I had a note from you this morning.” + </p> + <p> + As this statement required no confirmation, Banneker gave it none. + </p> + <p> + “Containing your resignation.” + </p> + <p> + “Conditional upon my being assigned to pry into society or private + scandals or rumors of them.” + </p> + <p> + “The Ledger does not recognize conditional resignation.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” Banneker’s smile was as sunny and + untroubled as a baby’s. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you appreciate that some one must cover this kind of + news.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It will have to be some one else.” + </p> + <p> + The faintest, fleeting suspicion of a frown troubled the Brahminical calm + of Mr. Greenough’s brow, only to pass into unwrinkled blandness. + </p> + <p> + “Further, you will recognize that, for the protection of the paper, + I must have at call reporters ready to perform any emergency duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” agreed Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Banneker,” queried Mr. Greenough in a semi-purr, “are + you too good for your job?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + For once the personification of city-deskness, secure though he was in the + justice of his position, was discomfited. “Too good for The Ledger?” + he demanded in protest and rebuke. + </p> + <p> + “Let me put it this way; I’m too good for any job that won’t + let me look a man square between the eyes when I meet him on it.” + </p> + <p> + “A dull lot of newspapers we’d have if all reporters took that + view,” muttered Mr. Greenough. + </p> + <p> + “It strikes me that what you’ve just said is the severest kind + of an indictment of the whole business, then,” retorted Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “A business that is good enough for a good many first-class men, + even though you may not consider it so for you. Possibly being for the + time—for a brief time—a sort of public figure, yourself, has—” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all to do with it,” interrupted the urbane + reporter. “I’ve always been this way. It was born in me.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall consult with Mr. Gordon about this,” said Mr. + Greenough, becoming joss-like again. “I hardly think—” + But what it was that he hardly thought, the subject of his animadversions + did not then or subsequently ascertain, for he was dismissed in the middle + of the sentence with a slow, complacent nod. + </p> + <p> + Loss of his place, had it promptly followed, would not have dismayed the + rebel. It did not follow. Nothing followed. Nothing, that is, out of the + ordinary run. Mr. Gordon said no word. Mr. Greenough made no reference to + the resignation. Tommy Burt, to whom Banneker had confided his action, was + of opinion that the city desk was merely waiting “to hand you + something so raw that you’ll have to buck it; something that not + even Joe Bullen would take.” Joe Bullen, an undertaker’s + assistant who had drifted into journalism through being a tipster, was The + Ledger’s “keyhole reporter” (unofficial). + </p> + <p> + “The joss is just tricky enough for that,” said Tommy. “He’ll + want to put you in the wrong with Gordon. You’re a pet of the boss’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t blame Greenough,” said Banneker. “If you + were on the desk you wouldn’t want reporters that wouldn’t + take orders.” + </p> + <p> + Van Cleve, oldest in standing of any of the staff, approached Banneker + with a grave face and solemn warnings. To leave The Ledger was to depart + forever from the odor of journalistic sanctity. No other office in town + was endurable for a gentleman. Other editors treated their men like + muckers. The worst assignment given out from The Ledger desk was a + perfumed cinch in comparison with what the average city room dealt out. + And he gave a formidable sketch of the careers (invariably downhill) of + reckless souls who had forsaken the true light of The Ledger for the false + lures which led into outer and unfathomable darkness. By this system of + subtly threatened excommunication had The Ledger saved to itself many a + good man who might otherwise have gone farther and not necessarily fared + worse. Banneker was not frightened. But he did give more than a thought to + the considerate standards and generous comradeship of the office. Only—was + it worth the price in occasional humiliation? + </p> + <p> + Sitting, idle at his desk in one of the subsequent periods of penance, he + bethought him of the note on the stationery of The New Era Magazine, + signed, “Yours very truly, Richard W. Gaines.” Perhaps this + was opportunity beckoning. He would go to see the Great Gaines. + </p> + <p> + The Great Gaines received him with quiet courtesy. He was a stubby, thick, + bearded man who produced an instant effect of entire candor. So peculiar + and exotic was this quality that it seemed to set him apart from the genus + of humankind in an aura of alien and daunting honesty. Banneker recalled + hearing of outrageous franknesses from his lips, directed upon small and + great, and, most amazingly, accepted without offense, because of the + translucent purity of the medium through which, as it were, the inner + prophet had spoken. Besides, he was usually right. + </p> + <p> + His first words to Banneker, after his greeting, were: “You are + exceedingly well tailored.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it matter?” asked Banneker, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I’m disappointed. I had read into your writing midnight toil + and respectable, if seedy, self-support.” + </p> + <p> + “After the best Grub Street tradition? Park Row has outlived that.” + </p> + <p> + “I know your tailor, but what’s your college?” inquired + this surprising man. + </p> + <p> + Banneker shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “At least I was right in that. I surmised individual education. Who + taught you to think for yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “My father.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s an uncommon name. You’re not a son of Christian + Banneker, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Did you know him?” + </p> + <p> + “A mistaken man. Whoring after strange gods. Strange, sterile, and + disappointing. But a brave soul, nevertheless. Yes; I knew him well. What + did he teach you?” + </p> + <p> + “He tried to teach me to stand on my own feet and see with my own + eyes and think for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes! With one’s own eyes. So much depends upon whither + one turns them. What have you seen in daily journalism?” + </p> + <p> + “A chance. Possibly a great chance.” + </p> + <p> + “To think for yourself?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker started, at this ready application of his words to the problem + which was already outlining itself by small, daily limnings in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “To write for others what you think for yourself?” pursued the + editor, giving sharpness and definition to the outline. + </p> + <p> + “Or,” concluded Mr. Gaines, as his hearer preserved silence, + “eventually to write for others what they think for themselves?” + He smiled luminously. “It’s a problem in stress: <i>x</i> = + the breaking-point of honesty. Your father was an absurdly honest man. + Those of us who knew him best honored him.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you doubting my honesty?” inquired Banneker, without + resentment or challenge. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes. Anybody’s. But hopefully, you understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Or the honesty of the newspaper business?” + </p> + <p> + A sigh ruffled the closer tendrils of Mr. Gaines’s beard. “I + have never been a journalist in the Park Row sense,” he said + regretfully. “Therefore I am conscious of solutions of continuity in + my views. Park Row amazes me. It also appalls me. The daily stench that + arises from the printing-presses. Two clouds; morning and evening.... + Perhaps it is only the odor of the fertilizing agent, stimulating the + growth of ideas. Or is it sheer corruption?” + </p> + <p> + “Two stages of the same process, aren’t they?” suggested + Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Encouraging to think so. Yet labor in a fertilizing plant, though + perhaps essential, is hardly conducive to higher thinking. You like it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t accept your definition at all,” replied + Banneker. “The newspapers are only a medium. If there is a stench, + they do not originate it. They simply report the events of the day.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. They simply disseminate it.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker was annoyed at himself for flushing. “They disseminate + news. We’ve got to have news, to carry on the world. Only a small + fraction of it is—well, malodorous. Would you destroy the whole + system because of one flaw? You’re not fair.” + </p> + <p> + “Fair? Of course I’m not. How should I be? No; I would not + destroy the system. Merely deodorize it a bit. But I suppose the public + likes the odors. It sniffs ’em up like—like Cyrano in the + bake-shop. A marvelous institution, the public which you and I serve. Have + you ever thought of magazine work, Mr. Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “A little.” + </p> + <p> + “There might be a considerable future there for you. I say ‘might.’ + Nothing is more uncertain. But you have certain—er—stigmata of + the writer—That article, now, about the funereal eulogies over the + old builder; did you report that talk as it was?” + </p> + <p> + “Approximately.” + </p> + <p> + “How approximately?” + </p> + <p> + “Well; the basic idea was there. The old fellows gave me that, and I + fitted it up with talk. Surely there’s nothing dishonest in that,” + protested Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Surely not,” agreed the other. “You gave the essence of + the thing. That is a higher veracity than any literal reporting which + would be dull and unreadable. I thought I recognized the fictional quality + in the dialogue.” + </p> + <p> + “But it wasn’t fiction,” denied Banneker eagerly. + </p> + <p> + The Great Gaines gave forth one of his oracles. “But it was. Good + dialogue is talk as it should be talked, just as good fiction is life as + it should be lived—logically and consecutively. Why don’t you + try something for The New Era?” + </p> + <p> + “I have.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “Before I got your note.” + </p> + <p> + “It never reached me.” + </p> + <p> + “It never reached anybody. It’s in my desk, ripening.” + </p> + <p> + “Send it along, green, won’t you? It may give more indications + that way. And first work is likely to be valuable chiefly as indication.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll mail it to you. Before I go, would you mind telling me + more definitely why you advise me against the newspaper business?” + </p> + <p> + “I advise? I never advise as to questions of morals or ethics. I + have too much concern with keeping my own straight.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it <i>is</i> a question of morals?” + </p> + <p> + “Or ethics. I think so. For example, have you tried your hand at + editorials?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Successfully?” + </p> + <p> + “As far as I’ve gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you are in accord with the editorial policy of The Ledger?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in everything.” + </p> + <p> + “In its underlying, unexpressed, and immanent theory that this + country can best be managed by an aristocracy, a chosen few, working under + the guise of democracy?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t believe that, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I do, as it happens. But I fail to see how Christian Banneker’s + son and <i>élève</i> could. Yet you write editorials for The Ledger.” + </p> + <p> + “Not on those topics.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you never had your editorials altered or cut or amended, in + such manner as to give a side-slant toward the paper’s editorial + fetiches?” + </p> + <p> + Again and most uncomfortably Banneker felt his color change. “Yes; I + have,” he admitted. + </p> + <p> + “What did you do?” + </p> + <p> + “What could I do? The Chief controls the editorial page.” + </p> + <p> + “You might have stopped writing for it.” + </p> + <p> + “I needed the money. No; that isn’t true. More than the money, + I wanted the practice and the knowledge that I could write editorials if I + wished to.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you thinking of going on the editorial side?” + </p> + <p> + “God forbid!” cried Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Unwilling to deal in other men’s ideas, eh? Well, Mr. + Banneker, you have plenty of troubles before you. Interesting ones, + however.” + </p> + <p> + “How much could I make by magazine writing?” asked Banneker + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Heaven alone knows. Less than you need, I should say, at first. How + much do you need?” + </p> + <p> + “My space bill last week was one hundred and twenty-one dollars. I + filled ’em up on Sunday specials.” + </p> + <p> + “And you need that?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s all gone,” grinned Banneker boyishly. + </p> + <p> + “As between a safe one hundred dollars-plus, and a highly + speculative nothing-and-upwards, how could any prudent person waver?” + queried Mr. Gaines as he shook hands in farewell. + </p> + <p> + For the first time in the whole unusual interview, Banneker found himself + misliking the other’s tone, particularly in the light emphasis + placed upon the word prudent. Banneker did not conceive kindly of himself + as a prudent person. + </p> + <p> + Back at the office, Banneker got out the story of which he had spoken to + Mr. Gaines, and read it over. It seemed to him good, and quite in the + tradition of The New Era. It was polite, polished, discreet, and, if not + precisely subtle, it dealt with interests and motives lying below the + obvious surfaces of life. It had amused Banneker to write it; which is not + to say that he spared laborious and conscientious effort. The New Era + itself amused him, with its air of well-bred aloofness from the flatulent + romanticism which filled the more popular magazines of the day with + duke-like drummers or drummer-like dukes, amiable criminals and brisk + young business geniuses, possessed of rather less moral sense than the + criminals, for its heroes, and for its heroines a welter of adjectives + exhaling an essence of sex. Banneker could imagine one of these females + straying into Mr. Gaines’s editorial ken, and that gentleman’s + bland greeting as to his own sprightly second maid arrayed and perfumed, + unexpectedly encountered at a charity bazar. Too rarefied for Banneker’s + healthy and virile young tastes, the atmosphere in which The New Era lived + and moved and had its consistently successful editorial being! He + preferred a freer air to the mild scents of lavender and rose-ash, even + though it might blow roughly at times. Nevertheless, that which was fine + and fastidious in his mind recognized and admired the restraint, the + dignity, the high and honorably maintained standards of the monthly. It + had distinction. It stood apart from and consciously above the reading + mob. In some respects it was the antithesis of that success for which Park + Row strove and sweated. + </p> + <p> + Banneker felt that he, too, could claim a place on those heights. Yes; he + liked his story. He thought that Mr. Gaines would like it. Having mailed + it, he went to Katie’s to dinner. There he found Russell Edmonds + discussing his absurdly insufficient pipe with his customary air of + careworn watchfulness lest it go out and leave him forlorn and unsolaced + in a harsh world. The veteran turned upon the newcomer a grim twinkle. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you do it,” he advised positively. + </p> + <p> + “Do what?” + </p> + <p> + “Quit.” + </p> + <p> + “Who told you I was considering it?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody. I knew it was about time for you to reach that point. We + all do—at certain times.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Disenchantment. Disillusionment. Besides, I hear the city desk has + been horsing you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then some one <i>has</i> been blabbing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, those things ooze out. Can’t keep ’em in. Besides, + all city desks do that to cubs who come up too fast. It’s part of + the discipline. Like hazing.” + </p> + <p> + “There are some things a man can’t do,” said Banneker + with a sort of appeal in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” returned Edmonds positively. “Nothing he can’t + do to get the news.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever peep through a keyhole?” + </p> + <p> + “Figuratively speaking?” + </p> + <p> + “If you like. Either way.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you do it to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it’s a phase a reporter has to go through?” + </p> + <p> + “Or quit.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t quit?” + </p> + <p> + “I did. For a time. In a way. I went to jail.” + </p> + <p> + “Jail? You?” Banneker had a flash of intuition. “I’ll + bet it was for something you were proud of.” + </p> + <p> + “I wasn’t ashamed of the jail sentence, at any rate. + Youngster, I’m going to tell you about this.” Edmonds’s + fine eyes seemed to have receded into their hollows as he sat thinking + with his pipe neglected on the table. “D’you know who Marna + Corcoran was?” + </p> + <p> + “An actress, wasn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “Leading lady at the old Coliseum Theater. A good actress and a good + woman. I was a cub then on The Sphere under Red McGraw, the worst + gutter-pup that ever sat at a city desk, and a damned good newspaper man. + In those days The Sphere specialized on scandals; the rottener, the + better; stuff that it wouldn’t touch to-day. Well, a hell-cat of a + society woman sued her husband for divorce and named Miss Corcoran. Pure + viciousness, it was. There wasn’t a shadow of proof, or even + suspicion.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember something about that case. The woman withdrew the + charge, didn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “When it was too late. Red McGraw had an early tip and sent me to + interview Marna Corcoran. He let me know pretty plainly that my job + depended on my landing the story. That was his style; a bully. Well, I got + the interview; never mind how. When I left her home Miss Corcoran was in a + nervous collapse. I reported to McGraw. ‘Keno!’ says he. + ‘Give us a column and a half of it. Spice it.’ I spiced it—I + guess. They tell me it was a good job. I got lost in the excitement of + writing and forgot what I was dealing with, a woman. We had a beat on that + interview. They raised my salary, I remember. A week later Red called me + to the desk. ‘Got another story for you, Edmonds. A hummer. Marna Corcoran + is in a private sanitarium up in Connecticut; hopelessly insane. I wouldn’t + wonder if our story did it.’ He grinned like an ape. ‘Go up + there and get it. Buy your way in, if necessary. You can always get to + some of the attendants with a ten-spot. Find out what she raves about; + whether it’s about Allison. Perhaps she’s given herself away. + Give us another red-hot one on it. Here’s the address.’ + </p> + <p> + “I wadded up the paper and stuffed it in his mouth. His lips felt + pulpy. He hit me with a lead paper-weight and cut my head open. I don’t + know that I even hit him; I didn’t specially want to hit him. I + wanted to mark him. There was an extra-size open ink-well on his desk. I + poured that over him and rubbed it into his face. Some of it got into his + eyes. How he yelled! Of course he had me arrested. I didn’t make any + defense; I couldn’t without bringing in Marna Corcoran’s name. + The Judge thought <i>I</i> was crazy. I was, pretty near. Three months, he + gave me. When I came out Marna Corcoran was dead. I went to find Red + McGraw and kill him. He was gone. I think he suspected what I would do. I’ve + never set eyes on him since. Two local newspapers sent for me as soon as + my term was up and offered me jobs. I thought it was because of what I had + done to McGraw. It wasn’t. It was on the strength of the Marna + Corcoran interview.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” + </p> + <p> + “I needed a job, too. But I didn’t take either of those. Later + I got a better one with a decent newspaper. The managing editor said when + he took me on: ‘Mr. Edmonds, we don’t approve of assaults on + the city desk. But if you ever receive in this office an assignment of the + kind that caused your outbreak, you may take it out on me.’ There + are pretty fine people in the newspaper business, too.” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds retrieved his pipe, discovering with a look of reproach and dismay + that it was out. He wiped away some tiny drops of sweat which had come out + upon the grayish skin beneath his eyes, while he was recounting his + tragedy. + </p> + <p> + “That makes my troubles seem petty,” said Banneker, under his + breath. “I wonder—” + </p> + <p> + “You wonder why I told you all this,” supplemented the + veteran. “Since I have, I’ll tell you the rest; how I made + atonement in a way. Ten years ago I was on a city desk myself. Not very + long; but long enough to find I didn’t like it. A story came to me + through peculiar channels. It was a scandal story; one of those things + that New York society whispers about all over the place, yet it’s + almost impossible to get anything to go on. When I tell you that even The + Searchlight, which lives on scandal, kept off it, you can judge how + dangerous it was. Well; I had it pat. It was really big stuff of its kind. + The woman was brilliant, a daughter of one of the oldest and most noted + New York families; and noted in her own right. She had never married: + preferred to follow her career. The man was eminent in his line: not a + society figure, except by marriage—his wife was active in the Four + Hundred—because he had no tastes in that direction. He was nearly + twenty years senior to the girl. The affair was desperate from the first. + How far it went is doubtful; my informant gave it the worst complexion. + Certainly there must have been compromising circumstances, for the wife + left him, holding over him the threat of exposure. He cared nothing for + himself; and the girl would have given up everything for him. But he was + then engaged on a public work of importance; exposure meant the ruin of + that. The wife made conditions; that the man should neither speak to, see, + nor communicate with the girl. He refused. The girl went into exile and + forced him to make the agreement. My informant had a copy of the letter of + agreement; you can see how close she was to the family. She said that, if + we printed it, the man would instantly break barriers, seek out the girl, + and they would go away together. A front-page story, and exclusive.” + </p> + <p> + “So it was a woman who held the key!” exclaimed Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Edmonds turned on him. “What does that mean? Do you know anything of + the story?” + </p> + <p> + “Not all that you’ve told me. I know the people.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why did you let me go on?” + </p> + <p> + “Because they—one of them—is my friend. There is no harm + to her in my knowing. It might even be helpful.” + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless, I think you should have told me at once,” + grumbled the veteran. “Well, I didn’t take the story. The + informer said that she would place it elsewhere. I told her that if she + did I would publish the whole circumstances of her visit and offer, and + make New York too hot to hold her. She retired, bulging with venom like a + mad snake. But she dares not tell.” + </p> + <p> + “The man’s wife, was it not?” + </p> + <p> + “Some one representing her, I suspect. A bad woman, that wife. But I + saved the girl in memory of Marna Corcoran. Think what the story would be + worth, now that the man is coming forward politically!” Edmonds + smiled wanly. “It was worth a lot even then, and I threw my paper + down on it. Of course I resigned from the city desk at once.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a fascinating game, being on the inside of the big + things,” ruminated Banneker. “But when it comes to a man’s + enslaving himself to his paper, I—don’t—know.” + </p> + <p> + “No: you won’t quit,” prophesied the other. + </p> + <p> + “I have. That is, I’ve resigned.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. They all do, of your type. It was the peck of dirt, wasn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Gordon won’t let you go. And you won’t have any more + dirt thrown at you—probably. If you do, it’ll be time enough + then.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s more than that.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there? What?” + </p> + <p> + “We’re a pariah caste, Edmonds, we reporters. People look down + on us.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that be damned! You can’t afford to be swayed by the + ignorance or snobbery of outsiders. Play the game straight, and let the + rest go.” + </p> + <p> + “But we are, aren’t we?” persisted Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “What! Pariahs?” The look which the old-timer bent upon the + rising star of the business had in it a quality of brooding and affection. + “Son, you’re too young to have come properly to that frame of + mind. That comes later. With the dregs of disillusion after the sparkle + has died out.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s true. You admit it.” + </p> + <p> + “If an outsider said that we were pariahs I’d call him a liar. + But, what’s the use, with you? It isn’t reporting alone. It’s + the whole business of news-getting and news-presenting; of journalism. We’re + under suspicion. They’re afraid of us. And at the same time they’re + contemptuous of us.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because people are mostly fools and fools are afraid or + contemptuous of what they don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker thought it over. “No. That won’t do,” he + decided. “Men that aren’t fools and aren’t afraid + distrust us and despise the business. Edmonds, there’s nothing + wrong, essentially, in furnishing news for the public. It’s part of + the spread of truth. It’s the handing on of the light. It’s—it’s + as big a thing as religion, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Bigger. Religion, seven days a week.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—” + </p> + <p> + “I know, son,” said Edmonds gently. “You’re + thirsting for the clear and restoring doctrine of journalism. And I’m + going to give you hell’s own heresy. You’ll come to it anyway, + in time.” His fierce little pipe glowed upward upon his knotted + brows. “You talk about truth, news: news and truth as one and the + same thing. So they are. But newspapers aren’t after news: not + primarily. Can’t you see that?” + </p> + <p> + “No. What are they after?” + </p> + <p> + “Sensation.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker turned the word over in his mind, evoking confirmation in the + remembered headlines even of the reputable Ledger. + </p> + <p> + “Sensation,” repeated the other. “We’ve got the + speed-up motto in industry. Our newspaper version of it is ‘spice-up.’ + A conference that may change the map of Europe will be crowded off any + front page any day by young Mrs. Poultney Masters making a speech in favor + of giving girls night-keys, or of some empty-headed society dame being + caught in a roadhouse with another lady’s hubby. Spice: that’s + what we’re looking for. Something to tickle their jaded palates. And + they despise us when we break our necks or our hearts to get it for + ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “But if it’s what they want, the fault lies with the public, + not with us,” argued Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “I used to know a white-stuff man—a cocaine-seller—who + had the same argument down pat,” retorted Edmonds quietly. + </p> + <p> + Banneker digested that for a time before continuing. + </p> + <p> + “Besides, you imply that because news is sensational, it must be + unworthy. That isn’t fair. Big news is always sensational. And of + course the public wants sensation. After all, sensation of one sort or + another is the proof of life.” + </p> + <p> + “Hence the noble profession of the pander,” observed Edmonds + through a coil of minute and ascending smoke-rings. “He also serves + the public.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not drawing a parallel—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! It isn’t the same thing, quite. But it’s the + same public. Let me tell you something to remember, youngster. The men who + go to the top in journalism, the big men of power and success and grasp, + come through with a contempt for the public which they serve, compared to + which the contempt of the public for the newspaper is as skim milk to + corrosive sublimate.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that’s what is wrong with the business, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you any idea,” inquired Edmonds softly, “what the + philosophy of the Most Ancient Profession is?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I once heard a street-walker on the verge of D.T.‘s—she + was intelligent; most of ’em are fools—express her analytical + opinion of the men who patronized her. The men who make our news system + have much the same notion of their public. How much poison <i>they</i> + scatter abroad we won’t know until a later diagnosis.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you advise me to stick in the business.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got to. You are marked for it.” + </p> + <p> + “And help scatter the poison!” + </p> + <p> + “God forbid! I’ve been pointing out the disease of the + business. There’s a lot of health in it yet. But it’s got to + have new blood. I’m too old to do more than help a little. Son, you’ve + got the stuff in you to do the trick. Some one is going to make a + newspaper here in this rotten, stink-breathing, sensation-sniffing town + that’ll be based on news. Truth! There’s your religion for + you. Go to it.” + </p> + <p> + “And serve a public that I’ll despise as soon as I get strong + enough to disregard it’s contempt for me,” smiled Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find a public that you can’t afford to despise,” + retorted the veteran. “There is such a public. It’s waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “Well; I’ll know in a couple of weeks,” said Banneker. + “But <i>I</i> think I’m about through.” + </p> + <p> + For Edmonds’s bitter wisdom had gone far toward confirming his + resolution to follow up his first incursion into the magazine field if it + met with the success which he confidently expected of it. + </p> + <p> + As if to hold him to his first allegiance, the ruling spirits of The + Ledger now began to make things easy for him. Fat assignments came his way + again. Events which seemed almost made to order for his pen were turned + over to him by the city desk. Even though he found little time for Sunday + “specials,” his space ran from fifteen to twenty-five dollars + a day, and the “Eban” skits on the editorial page, now paid at + double rates because of their popularity, added a pleasant surplus. To put + a point to his mysteriously restored favor, Mr. Greenough called up one + hot morning and asked Banneker to make what speed he could to Sippiac, New + Jersey. Rioting had broken out between mill-guards and the strikers of the + International Cloth Company factories, with a number of resulting + fatalities. It was a “big story.” That Banneker was specially + fitted, through his familiarity with the ground, to handle it, the city + editor was not, of course, aware. + </p> + <p> + At Sippiac, Banneker found the typical industrial tragedy of that time and + condition, worked out to its logical conclusion. On the one side a small + army of hired gun-men, assured of full protection and endorsement in + whatever they might do: on the other a mob of assorted foreigners, + ignorant, resentful of the law, which seemed only a huge mechanism of + injustice manipulated by their oppressors, inflamed by the heavy potations + of a festal night carried over into the next day, and, because of the + criminally lax enforcement of the law, tacitly permitted to go armed. Who + had started the clash was uncertain and, perhaps in essentials, + immaterial; so perfectly and fatefully had the stage been set for mutual + murder. At the close of the fray there were ten dead. One was a guard: the + rest, strikers or their dependents, including a woman and a six-year-old + child, both shot down while running away. + </p> + <p> + 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. Horace Vanney, chief owner of the + International Cloth Mills, had given to Banneker a reprint of an address + by himself, before some philosophical and inquiring society, wherein he + had set forth some of his simpler economic theories. A quotation, + admirably apropos to Banneker’s present purposes, flashed forth + clear and pregnant, to his journalistic memory. From the Ledger “morgue” + he selected one of several cuts of Mr. Vanney, and turned it in to the + night desk for publication, with this descriptive note: + </p> + <p> + Horace Vanney, Chairman of the Board of the International Cloth Company, + Who declares that if working-women are paid more than a bare living wage, + The surplus goes into finery and vanities which tempt them to ruin, Mr. + Vanney’s mills pay girls four dollars a week. + </p> + <p> + Ravenously hungry, Banneker went out to order a long-delayed dinner at + Katie’s. Hardly had he swallowed his first mouthful of soup, when an + office boy appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Gordon wants to know if you can come back to the office at + once.” + </p> + <p> + On the theory that two minutes, while important to his stomach, would not + greatly matter to the managing editor, Banneker consumed the rest of his + soup and returned. He found Mr. Gordon visibly disturbed. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Mr. Banneker,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Banneker compiled. + </p> + <p> + “We can’t use that Sippiac story.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker sat silent and attentive. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you write it that way?” + </p> + <p> + “I wrote it as I got it.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not a fair story.” + </p> + <p> + “Every fact—” + </p> + <p> + “It is a most unfair story.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Sippiac, Mr. Gordon?” inquired Banneker equably. + </p> + <p> + “I do not. Nor can I believe it possible that you could acquire the + knowledge of it implied in your article, in a few hours.” + </p> + <p> + “I spent some time investigating conditions there before I came on + the paper.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gordon was taken aback. Shifting his stylus to his left hand, he + assailed severally the knuckles of his right therewith before he spoke. + “You know the principles of The Ledger, Mr. Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “To get the facts and print them, so I have understood.” + </p> + <p> + “These are not facts.” The managing editor rapped sharply upon + the proof. “This is editorial matter, hardly disguised.” + </p> + <p> + “Descriptive, I should call it,” returned the writer amiably. + </p> + <p> + “Editorial. You have pictured Sippiac as a hell on earth.” + </p> + <p> + “It is.” + </p> + <p> + “Sentimentalism!” snapped the other. His heavy visage wore a + disturbed and peevish expression that rendered it quite plaintive. “You + have been with us long enough, Mr. Banneker, to know that we do not cater + to the uplift-social trade, nor are we after the labor vote.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. I understand that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you present here, what is, in effect, a damning indictment of + the Sippiac Mills.” + </p> + <p> + “The facts do that; not I.” + </p> + <p> + “But you have selected your facts, cleverly—oh, very cleverly—to + produce that effect, while ignoring facts on the other side.” + </p> + <p> + “Such as?” + </p> + <p> + “Such as the presence and influence of agitators. The evening + editions have the names, and some of the speeches.” + </p> + <p> + “That is merely clouding the main issue. Conditions are such there + that no outside agitation is necessary to make trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “But the agitators are there. They’re an element and you have + ignored it. Mr. Banneker, do you consider that you are dealing fairly with + this paper, in attempting to commit it to an inflammatory, pro-strike + course?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, if the facts constitute that kind of an argument.” + </p> + <p> + “What of that picture of Horace Vanney? Is that news?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? It goes to the root of the whole trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “To print that kind of stuff,” said Mr. Gordon forcibly, + “would make The Ledger a betrayer of its own cause. What you + personally believe is not the point.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe in facts.” + </p> + <p> + “It is what The Ledger believes that is important here. You must + appreciate that, as long as you remain on the staff, your only honorable + course is to conform to the standards of the paper. When you write an + article, it appears to our public, not as what Mr. Banneker says, but as + what The Ledger says.” + </p> + <p> + “In other words,” said Banneker thoughtfully, “where the + facts conflict with The Ledger’s theories, I’m expected to + adjust the facts. Is that it?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not! You are expected to present the news fairly and + without editorial emphasis.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon, but I don’t believe I could + rewrite that story so as to give a favorable slant to the International’s + side. Shooting down women and kids, you know—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gordon’s voice was crisp as he cut in. “There is no + question of your rewriting it. That has been turned over to a man we can + trust.” + </p> + <p> + “To handle facts tactfully,” put in Banneker in his mildest + voice. + </p> + <p> + Considerably to his surprise, he saw a smile spread over Mr. Gordon’s + face. “You’re an obstinate young animal, Banneker,” he + said. “Take this proof home, put it under your pillow and dream over + it. Tell me a week from now what you think of it.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker rose. “Then, I’m not fired?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Not by me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I’m trusting in your essential honesty to bring you + around.” + </p> + <p> + “To be quite frank,” returned Banneker after a moment’s + thought, “I’m afraid I’ve got to be convinced of The + Ledger’s essential honesty to come around.” + </p> + <p> + “Go home and think it over,” suggested the managing editor. + </p> + <p> + To his associate, Andreas, he said, looking at Banneker’s retreating + back: “We’re going to lose that young man, Andy. And we can’t + afford to lose him.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” inquired Andreas, the fanatical + devotee of the creed of news for news’ sake. + </p> + <p> + “Quixotism. Did you read his story?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gordon looked up from his inflamed knuckles for an opinion. + </p> + <p> + “A great job,” pronounced Andreas, almost reverently. + </p> + <p> + “But not for us.” + </p> + <p> + “No; no. Not for us.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t a fair story,” alleged the managing editor + with a hint of the defensive in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Too hot for that,” the assistant supported his chief. “And + yet perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps what?” inquired Mr. Gordon with roving and anxious + eye. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” said Andreas. + </p> + <p> + As well as if he had finished, Mr. Gordon supplied the conclusion. “Perhaps + it is quite as fair as our recast article will be.” + </p> + <p> + It was, on the whole, fairer. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + Sound though Mr. Gordon’s suggestion was, Banneker after the + interview did not go home to think it over. He went to a telephone booth + and called up the Avon Theater. Was the curtain down? It was, just. Could + he speak to Miss Raleigh? The affair was managed. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Bettina.” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “How nearly dressed are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—half an hour or so.” + </p> + <p> + “Go out for a bite, if I come up there?” + </p> + <p> + The telephone receiver gave a transferred effect of conscientious + consideration. “No: I don’t think so. I’m tired. This is + my night for sleep.” + </p> + <p> + To such a basis had the two young people come in the course of the police + investigation and afterward, that an agreement had been formulated whereby + Banneker was privileged to call up the youthful star at any reasonable + hour and for any reasonable project, which she might accept or reject + without the burden of excuse. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right!” returned Banneker amiably. + </p> + <p> + The receiver produced, in some occult manner, the manner of not being + precisely pleased with this. “You don’t seem much + disappointed,” it said. + </p> + <p> + “I’m stricken but philosophical. Don’t you see me, + pierced to the heart, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Ban,” interrupted the instrument: “you’re + flippant. Have you been drinking?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Nor eating either, now that you remind me.” + </p> + <p> + “Has something happened?” + </p> + <p> + “Something is always happening in this restless world.” + </p> + <p> + “It has. And you want to tell me about it.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I just want to forget it, in your company.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a decent night out?” + </p> + <p> + “Most respectable.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you may come and walk me home. I think the air will do me + good.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very light diet, though,” observed Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well,” responded the telephone in tones of patient + resignation. “I’ll watch you eat. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Seated at a quiet table in the restaurant, Betty Raleigh leaned back in + her chair, turning expectant eyes upon her companion. + </p> + <p> + “Now tell your aged maiden auntie all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I say I was going to tell you about it?” + </p> + <p> + “You said you weren’t. Therefore I wish to know.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I’m fired.” + </p> + <p> + “Fired? From The Ledger? Do you care?” + </p> + <p> + “For the loss of the job? Not a hoot. Otherwise I wouldn’t be + going to fire myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh: that’s it, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You see, it’s a question of my doing my work my way or + The Ledger’s way. I prefer my way.” + </p> + <p> + “And The Ledger prefers its way, I suppose. That’s because + what you call <i>your</i> work, The Ledger considers <i>its</i> work.” + </p> + <p> + “In other words, as a working entity, I belong to The Ledger.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t a flattering thought. And if the paper wants me to + falsify or suppress or distort, I have to do it. Is that the idea?” + </p> + <p> + “Unless you’re big enough not to.” + </p> + <p> + “Being big enough means getting out, doesn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Or making yourself so indispensable that you can do things your own + way.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a wise child, Betty,” said he. “What do + you really think of the newspaper business?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a rotten business.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s frank, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Now I’ve hurt your feelings. Haven’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit. Roused my curiosity: that’s all. Why do you think + it a rotten business?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s so—so mean. It’s petty.” + </p> + <p> + “As for example?” he pressed. + </p> + <p> + “See what Gurney did to me—to the play,” she replied + naïvely. “Just to be smart.” + </p> + <p> + “Whew! Talk about the feminine propensity for proving a + generalization by a specific instance! Gurney is an old man reared in an + old tradition. He isn’t metropolitan journalism.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s dramatic criticism,” she retorted. + </p> + <p> + “No. Only one phase of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyway, a successful phase.” + </p> + <p> + “He wants to produce his little sensation,” ruminated + Banneker, recalling Edmonds’s bitter diagnosis. “He does it by + being clever. There are worse ways, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “He’d always rather say a clever thing than a true one.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker gave her a quick look. “Is that the disease from which the + newspaper business is suffering?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. Anyway, it’s no good for you, Ban, if it won’t + let you be yourself. And write as you think. This isn’t new to me. I’ve + known newspaper men before, a lot of them, and all kinds.” + </p> + <p> + “Weren’t any of them honest?” + </p> + <p> + “Lots. But very few of them independent. They can’t be. Not + even the owners, though they think they are.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to try that.” + </p> + <p> + “You’d only have a hundred thousand bosses instead of one,” + said she wisely. + </p> + <p> + “You’re talking about the public. They’re your bosses, + too, aren’t they?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m only a woman. It doesn’t matter. Besides, they’re + not. I lead ‘em by the ear—the big, red, floppy ear. Poor dears! + They think I love ‘em all.” + </p> + <p> + “Whereas what you really love is the power within yourself to please + them. You call it art, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban! What a repulsive way to put it. You’re revenging + yourself for what I said about the newspapers.” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly. I’m drawing the deadly parallel.” + </p> + <p> + She drew down her pretty brows in thought. “I see. But, at worst, I’m + interpreting in my own way. Not somebody else’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Not your author’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” she returned mutinously. “I know how to + put a line over better than he possibly could. That’s <i>my</i> + business.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d hate to write a play for you, Bettina.” + </p> + <p> + “Try it,” she challenged. “But don’t try to teach + me how to play it after it’s written.” + </p> + <p> + “I begin to see the effect of the bill-board’s printing the + star’s name in letters two feet high and the playwright’s in + one-inch type.” + </p> + <p> + “The newspapers don’t print yours at all, do they? Unless you + shoot some one,” she added maliciously. + </p> + <p> + “True enough. But I don’t think I’d shine as a + playwright.” + </p> + <p> + “What will you do, then, if you fire yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Fiction, perhaps. It’s slow but glorious, I understand. When + I’m starving in a garret, awaiting fame with the pious and cocksure + confidence of genius, will you guarantee to invite me to a square meal + once a fortnight? Think what it would give me to look forward to!” + </p> + <p> + She was looking him in the face with an expression of frank curiosity. + “Ban, does money never trouble you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not very much,” he confessed. “It comes somehow and + goes every way.” + </p> + <p> + “You give the effect of spending it with graceful ease. Have you got + much?” + </p> + <p> + “A little dribble of an income of my own. I make, I suppose, about a + quarter of what your salary is.” + </p> + <p> + “One doesn’t readily imagine you ever being scrimped. You give + the effect of pros—no, not of prosperity; of—well—absolute + ease. It’s quite different.” + </p> + <p> + “Much nicer.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what they call you, around town?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t know I had attained the pinnacle of being called + anything, around town.” + </p> + <p> + “They call you the best-dressed first-nighter in New York.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, damn!” said Banneker fervently. + </p> + <p> + “That’s fame, though. I know plenty of men who would give half + of their remaining hairs for it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t need the hairs, but they can have it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, too, you know, I’m an asset.” + </p> + <p> + “An asset?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. To you, I mean.” She pursed her fingers upon the tip of + her firm little chin and leaned forward. “Our being seen so much + together. Of course, that’s a brashly shameless thing to say. But I + never have to wear a mask for you. In that way you’re a comfortable + person.” + </p> + <p> + “You do have to furnish a diagram, though.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes? You’re not usually stupid. Whether you try for it or not—and + I think there’s a dash of the theatrical in your make-up—you’re + a picturesque sort of animal. And I—well, I help out the picture; + make you the more conspicuous. It isn’t your good looks alone—you’re + handsome as the devil, you know, Ban,” she twinkled at him—“nor + the super-tailored effect which you pretend to despise, nor your fame as a + gun-man, though that helps a lot.... I’ll give you a bit of + tea-talk: two flappers at The Plaza. ‘Who’s that + wonderful-looking man over by the palm?’—‘Don’t + you know him? Why, that’s Mr. Banneker.’—‘Who’s + he; and what does he do? Have I seen him on the stage?’—‘No, + indeed! I don’t know what he does; but he’s an ex-ranchman and + he held off a gang of river-pirates on a yacht, all alone, and killed + eight or ten of them. Doesn’t he look it!’” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t go to afternoon teas,” said the subject of this + sprightly sketch, sulkily. + </p> + <p> + “You will! If you don’t look out. Now the same scene several + years hence. Same flapper, answering same question: ‘Who’s + Banneker? Oh, a reporter or something, on one of the papers.’ <i>Et + voilà tout</i>!” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you were with me at the Plaza, as an asset, several years + hence?” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t be—several years hence.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker smiled radiantly. “Which I am to take as fair warning that, + unless I rise above my present lowly estate, that waxing young star, Miss + Raleigh, will no longer—” + </p> + <p> + “Ban! What right have you to think me a wretched little snob?” + </p> + <p> + “None in the world. It’s I that am the snob, for even thinking + about it. Just the same, what you said about ‘only a reporter or + something’ struck in.” + </p> + <p> + “But in a few years from now you won’t be a reporter.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I still be privileged to invite Miss Raleigh to supper—or + was it tea?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re still angry. That isn’t fair of you when I’m + being so frank. I’m going to be even franker. I’m feeling that + way to-night. Comes of being tired, I suppose. Relaxing of the + what-you-callems of inhibition. Do you know there’s a lot of gossip + about us, back of stage?” + </p> + <p> + “Is there? Do you mind it?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It doesn’t matter. They think I’m crazy about you.” + Her clear, steady eyes did not change expression or direction. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not; are you?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I’m not. That’s the strange part of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks for the flattering implication. But you couldn’t take + any serious interest in a mere reporter, could you?” he said + wickedly. + </p> + <p> + This time Betty laughed. “Couldn’t I! I could take serious + interest in a tumblebug, at times. Other times I wouldn’t care if + the whole race of men were extinct—and that’s most times. I + feel your charm. And I like to be with you. You rest me. You’re an + asset, too, in a way, Ban; because you’re never seen with any woman. + You’re supposed not to care for them.... You’ve never tried to + make love to me even the least little bit, Ban. I wonder why.” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds like an invitation, but—” + </p> + <p> + “But you know it isn’t. That’s the delightful part of + you; you do know things like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Also I know better than to risk my peace of mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t lie to me, my dear,” she said softly. “There’s + some one else.” + </p> + <p> + He made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “You see, you don’t deny it.” Had he denied it, she + would have said: “Of course you’d deny it!” the methods + of feminine detective logic being so devised. + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t deny it.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t want to talk about her.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s as bad as that?” she commiserated gently. “Poor + Ban! But you’re young. You’ll get over it.” Her brooding + eyes suddenly widened. “Or perhaps you won’t,” she + amended with deeper perceptiveness. “Have you been trying me as an + anodyne?” she demanded sternly. + </p> + <p> + Banneker had the grace to blush. Instantly she rippled into laughter. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never seen you at a loss before. You look as sheepish as + a stage-door Johnnie when his inamorata gets into the other fellow’s + car. Ban, you never hung about stage-doors, did you? I think it would be + good for you; tame your proud spirit and all that. Why don’t you + write one of your ‘Eban’ sketches on John H. Stage-Door?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do better than that. Give me of your wisdom on the + subject and I’ll write an interview with you for Tittle-Tattle.” + </p> + <p> + “Do! And make me awfully clever, please. Our press-agent hasn’t + put anything over for weeks. He’s got a starving wife and seven + drunken children, or something like that, and, as he’ll take all the + credit for the interview and even claim that he wrote it unless you sign + it, perhaps it’ll get him a raise and he can then buy the girl who + plays the manicure part a bunch of orchids. <i>He</i>’d have been a + stage-door Johnnie if he hadn’t stubbed his toe and become a + press-agent.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Banneker. “Now: I’ll ask the + stupid questions and you give the cutie answers.” + </p> + <p> + It was two o’clock when Miss Betty Raleigh, having seen the gist of + all her witty and profound observations upon a strange species embodied in + three or four scrawled notes on the back of a menu, rose and observed + that, whereas acting was her favorite pastime, her real and serious + business was sleep. At her door she held her face up to him as + straightforwardly as a child. “Good luck to you, dear boy,” + she said softly. “If I ever were a fortune-teller, I would say that + your star was for happiness and success.” + </p> + <p> + He bent and kissed her cheek lightly. “I’ll have my try at + success,” he said. “But the other isn’t so easy.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find them one and the same,” was her parting + prophecy. + </p> + <p> + Inured to work at all hours, Banneker went to the small, bare room in his + apartment which he kept as a study, and sat down to write the interview. + Angles of dawn-light had begun to irradiate the steep canyon of the street + by the time he had finished. He read it over and found it good, for its + purposes. Every line of it sparkled. It had the effervescent quality which + the reading public loves to associate with stage life and stage people. + Beyond that, nothing. Banneker mailed it to Miss Westlake for typing, had + a bath, and went to bed. At noon he was at The Ledger office, fresh, + alert, and dispassionately curious to ascertain the next resolution of the + mix-up between the paper and himself. + </p> + <p> + Nothing happened; at least, nothing indicative. Mr. Greenough’s + expression was as flat and neutral as the desk over which he presided as + he called Banneker’s name and said to him: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Horace Vanney wishes to relieve his soul of some priceless + information. Will you call at his office at two-thirty?” + </p> + <p> + It was Mr. Vanney’s practice, whenever any of his enterprises + appeared in a dubious or unfavorable aspect, immediately to materialize in + print on some subject entirely unrelated, preferably an announcement on + behalf of one of the charitable or civic organizations which he officially + headed. Thus he shone forth as a useful, serviceable, and public-spirited + citizen, against whom (such was the inference which the newspaper reader + was expected to draw) only malignancy could allege anything injurious. In + this instance his offering upon the altar of publicity, carefully typed + and mimeographed, had just enough importance to entitle it to a paragraph + of courtesy. After it was given out to those who called, Mr. Vanney + detained Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Have you read the morning papers, Mr. Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. That’s my business, Mr. Vanney.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you can see, by the outbreak in Sippiac, to what disastrous + results anarchism and fomented discontent lead.” + </p> + <p> + “Depends on the point of view. I believe that, after my visit to the + mills for you, I told you that unless conditions were bettered you’d + have another and worse strike. You’ve got it.” + </p> + <p> + “Fortunately it is under control. The trouble-makers and thugs have + been taught a needed lesson.” + </p> + <p> + “Especially the six-year-old trouble-making thug who was shot + through the lungs from behind.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanney scowled. “Unfortunate. And the papers laid unnecessary + stress upon that. Wholly unnecessary. Most unfair.” + </p> + <p> + “You would hardly accuse The Ledger, at least, of being unfair to + the mill interests.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The Ledger’s handling, while less objectionable than + some of the others, was decidedly unfortunate.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker gazed at him in stupefaction. “Mr. Vanney, The Ledger + minimized every detail unfavorable to the mills and magnified every one + which told against the strikers. It was only its skill that concealed the + bias in every paragraph.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not over-loyal to your employer, sir,” commented the + other severely. + </p> + <p> + “At least I’m defending the paper against your aspersions,” + returned Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Most unfair,” pursued Mr. Vanney. “Why publish such + matter at all? It merely stirs up more discontent and excites hostility + against the whole industrial system which has made this country great. And + I give more copy to the newspaper men than any other public man in New + York. It’s rank ingratitude, that’s what it is.” He + meditated upon the injurious matter. “I suppose we ought to have + advertised,” he added pensively. “Then they’d let us + alone as they do the big stores.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker left the Vanney offices with a great truth illuminating his + brain; to wit, that news, whether presented ingenuously or disingenuously, + will always and inevitably be unpopular with those most nearly affected. + For while we all read avidly what we can find about the other man’s + sins and errors, we all hope, for our own, the kindly mantle of silence. + And because news always must and will stir hostility, the attitude of a + public, any part of which may be its next innocent (or guilty) victim, is + instinctively inimical. Another angle of the pariahdom of those who deal + in day-to-day history, for Banneker to ponder. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You ride like an Indian,” said Densmore to him after the + scratch game, “and you’ve got no nerves. But I don’t see + where you got your wrist, except by practice.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had the practice, some time since.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you’ve only knocked about the field with stable-boys—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the only play I’ve ever had. But when I was + riding range in the desert, I picked up an old stick and a ball of the + owner’s, and I’ve chased that ball over more miles of sand and + rubble than you’d care to walk. Cactus plants make very fair goal + posts, too; but the sand is tricky going for the ball.” + </p> + <p> + Densmore whistled. “That explains it. Maitland says you’ll + make the club team in two years. Let us get together and fix you up some + ponies,” invited Densmore. + </p> + <p> + Banneker shook his head, but wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “Until you’re making enough to carry your own.” + </p> + <p> + “That might be ten years, in the newspaper business. Or never. + </p> + <p> + “Then get out of it. Let Old Man Masters find you something in the + Street. You could get away with it,” persuaded Densmore. “And + he’ll do anything for a polo-man.” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you. No paid-athlete job for mine. I’d rather stay + a reporter.” + </p> + <p> + “Come into the club, anyway. You can afford that. And at least you + can take a mount on your day off.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking of another job where I’ll have more time + to myself than one day a week,” confessed Banneker, having in mind + possible magazine work. He thought of the pleasant remoteness of The + Retreat. It was expensive; it would involve frequent taxi charges. But, as + ever, Banneker had an unreasoning faith in a financial providence of + supply. “Yes: I’ll come in,” he said. “That is, if + I can get in.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll get in, with Poultney Masters for a backer. Otherwise, + I’ll tell you frankly, I think your business would keep you out, in + spite of your polo.” + </p> + <p> + “Densmore, there’s something I’ve been wanting to put up + to you.” + </p> + <p> + Densmore’s heavy brows came to attention. “Fire ahead.” + </p> + <p> + “You were ready to beat me up when I came here to ask you certain + questions.” + </p> + <p> + “I was. Any fellow would be. You would.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. But suppose, through the work of some other reporter, a + divorce story involving the sister and brother-in-law of some chap in your + set had appeared in the papers.” + </p> + <p> + “No concern of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “But you’d read it, wouldn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably.” + </p> + <p> + “And if your paper didn’t have it in and another paper did, + you’d buy the other paper to find out about it.” + </p> + <p> + “If I was interested in the people, I might.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what kind of a sport are you, when you’re keen to read + about other people’s scandals, but sore on any one who inquires + about yours?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the other fellow’s bad luck. If he—” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t get my point. A newspaper is simply a news + exchange. If you’re ready to read about the affairs of others, you + should not resent the activity of the newspaper that attempts to present + yours. I’m merely advancing a theory.” + </p> + <p> + “Damned ingenious,” admitted the polo-player. “Make a + reporter a sort of public agent, eh? Only, you see, he isn’t. He + hasn’t any right to my private affairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you shouldn’t take advantage of his efforts, as you do + when you read about your friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s too fine-spun for me. Now, I’ll tell you; + just because I take a drink at a bar I don’t make a pal of the + bartender. It comes to about the same thing, I fancy. You’re trying + to justify your profession. Let me ask <i>you</i>; do you feel that you’re + within your decent rights when you come to a stranger with such a question + as you put up to me?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t,” replied Banneker ruefully. “I feel + like a man trying to hold up a bigger man with a toy pistol.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’d better get into some other line.” + </p> + <p> + But whatever hopes Banneker may have had of the magazine line suffered a + set-back when, a few days later, he called upon the Great Gaines at his + office, and was greeted with a cheery though quizzical smile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I’ve read it,” said the editor at once, not + waiting for the question. “It’s clever. It’s amazingly + clever.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you like it,” replied Banneker, pleased but + not surprised. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Gaines’s expression became one of limpid innocence. “Like + it? Did I say I liked it?” + </p> + <p> + “No; you didn’t say so.” + </p> + <p> + “No. As a matter of fact I don’t like it. Dear me, no! Not at + all. Where did you get the idea?” asked Mr. Gaines abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “The plot?” + </p> + <p> + “No; no. Not the plot. The plot is nothing. The idea of choosing + such an environment and doing the story in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “From The New Era Magazine.” + </p> + <p> + “I begin to see. You have been studying the magazine.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Since I first had the idea of trying to write for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Flattered, indeed!” said Mr. Gaines dryly. “And you + modeled yourself upon—what?” + </p> + <p> + “I wrote the type of story which the magazine runs to.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me. You did not. You wrote, if you will forgive me, an + imitation of that type. Your story has everything that we strive for + except reality.” + </p> + <p> + “You believe that I have deliberately copied—” + </p> + <p> + “A type, not a story. No; you are not a plagiarist, Mr. Banneker. + But you are very thoroughly a journalist.” + </p> + <p> + “Coming from you that can hardly be accounted a compliment.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor is it so intended. But I don’t wish you to misconstrue + me. You are not a journalist in your style and method; it goes deeper than + that. You are a journalist in your—well, in your approach. ‘What + the public wants.’” + </p> + <p> + Inwardly Banneker was raging. The incisive perception stung. But he spoke + lightly. “Doesn’t The New Era want what its public wants?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir, in the words of a man who ought to have been an editor + of to-day, ‘The public be damned!’ What I looked to you for + was not your idea of what somebody else wanted you to write, but your + expression of what you yourself want to write. About hoboes. About + railroad wrecks. About cowmen or peddlers or waterside toughs or + stage-door Johnnies, or ward politicians, or school-teachers, or life. Not + pink teas.” + </p> + <p> + “I have read pink-tea stories in your magazine.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you have. Written by people who could see through the + pink to the primary colors underneath. When <i>you</i> go to a pink tea, + you are pink. Did you ever go to one?” + </p> + <p> + Still thoroughly angry, Banneker nevertheless laughed, “Then the + story is no use?” + </p> + <p> + “Not to us, certainly. Miss Thornborough almost wept over it. She + said that you would undoubtedly sell it to The Bon Vivant and be damned + forever.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank her on my behalf,” returned the other gravely. “If + The Bon Vivant wants it and will pay for it, I shall certainly sell it to + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Out of pique?... Hold hard, young sir! You can’t shoot an + editor in his sanctum because of an ill-advised but natural question.” + </p> + <p> + “True enough. Nor do I want—well, yes; I would rather like to.” + </p> + <p> + “Good! That’s natural and genuine.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think The Bon Vivant would pay for that story?” + inquired Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps a hundred dollars. Cheap, for a career, isn’t it!” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t the assumption that there is but one pathway to the + True Art and but one signboard pointing to it a little excessive?” + </p> + <p> + “Abominably. There are a thousand pathways, broad and narrow. They + all go uphill.... Some day when you spin something out of your own inside, + Mr. Banneker, forgive the well-meaning editor and let us see it. It might + be pure silk.” + </p> + <p> + All the way downtown, Banneker cursed inwardly but brilliantly. This was + his first set-back. Everything prior which he had attempted had been + successful. Inevitably the hard, firm texture of his inner endurance had + softened under the spoiled-child treatment which the world had readily + accorded him. Even while he recognized this, he sulked. + </p> + <p> + To some extent he was cheered up by a letter from the editor of that + lively and not too finicky publication, Tittle-Tattle. The interview with + Miss Raleigh was acclaimed with almost rapturous delight. It was precisely + the sort of thing wanted. Proof had already been sent to Miss Raleigh, who + was equally pleased. Would Mr. Banneker kindly read and revise enclosed + proof and return it as soon as possible? Mr. Banneker did better than + that. He took back the corrected proof in person. The editor was most + cordial, until Banneker inquired what price was to be paid for the + interview. Then the editor was surprised and grieved. It appeared that he + had not expected to pay anything for it. + </p> + <p> + “Do you expect to get copy for nothing?” inquired the + astonished and annoyed Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “If it comes to that,” retorted the sharp-featured young man + at the editorial desk, “you’re the one that’s getting + something for nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t follow you.” + </p> + <p> + “Come off! This is red-hot advertising matter for Betty Raleigh, and + you know it. Why, I ought to charge a coupla hundred for running it at + all. But you being a newspaper man and the stuff being so snappy, I’m + willing to make an exception. Besides, you’re a friend of Raleigh’s, + ain’t you? Well—‘nuff said!” + </p> + <p> + It was upon the tip of Banneker’s tongue to demand the copy back. + Then he bethought himself of Betty’s disappointment. The thing <i>was</i> + well done. If he had been a thousand miles short of giving even a hint of + the real Betty—who was a good deal of a person—at least he had + embodied much of the light and frivolous charm which was her stage + stock-in-trade, and what her public wanted. He owed her that much, anyhow. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said shortly. + </p> + <p> + He left, and on the street-car immersed himself in some disillusioning + calculations. Suppose he did sell the rejected story to The Bon Vivant. + One hundred dollars, he had learned, was the standard price paid by that + frugal magazine; that would not recompense him for the time bestowed upon + it. He could have made more by writing “specials” for the + Sunday paper. And on top of that to find that a really brilliant piece of + interviewing had brought him in nothing more substantial than + congratulations and the sense of a good turn done for a friend! + </p> + <p> + The magazine field, he began to suspect, might prove to be arid land. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + What next? Banneker put the query to himself with more seriousness than he + had hitherto given to estimating the future. Money, as he told Betty + Raleigh, had never concerned him much. His start at fifteen dollars a week + had been more than he expected; and though his one weekly evening of mild + sybaritism ate up all his margin, and his successful sartorial experiments + consumed his private surplus, he had no cause for worry, since his salary + had been shortly increased to twenty, and even more shortly thereafter to + twenty-five. Now it was a poor week in which he did not exceed the + hundred. All of it went, rather more fluently than had the original + fifteen. Frugal though he could be in normal expenditures, the rental of + his little but fashionably situated apartment, his new club expenses, his + polo outfit, and his occasional associations with the after-theater + clique, which centered at The Avon, caused the debit column to mount with + astonishing facility. Furthermore, through his Western associations he had + an opportunity to pick up two half-broken polo ponies at bargain prices. + He had practically decided to buy them. Their keep would be a serious + item. He must have more money. How to get it? Harder work was the obvious + answer. Labor had no terrors for Banneker. Mentally he was a hardened + athlete, always in training. Being wise and self-protective, he did no + writing on his day off. But except for this period of complete relaxation, + he gave himself no respite. Any morning which did not find him writing in + his den, after a light, working breakfast, he put in at the Library near + by, insatiably reading economics, sociology, politics, science, the more + serious magazines, and always the news and comments of the day. He was + possessed of an assertive and sane curiosity to know what was going on in + the world, an exigence which pressed upon him like a healthy appetite, the + stimulus of his hard-trained mental condition. The satisfaction of this + demand did not pay an immediate return; he obtained little or no actual + material to be transmuted into the coin of so-much-per-column, except as + he came upon suggestions for editorial use; and, since his earlier + experience of The Ledger’s editorial method with contributions + (which he considered light-fingered), he had forsworn this medium. + Notwithstanding this, he wrote or sketched out many an editorial which + would have astonished, and some which would have benefited, the Inside + Room where the presiding genius, malicious and scholarly, dipped his pen + alternately into luminous ether and undiluted venom. Some day, Banneker + was sure, he himself was going to say things editorially. + </p> + <p> + His opinion of the editorial output in general was unflattering. It seemed + to him bound by formalism and incredibly blind to the immense and vivid + interest of the news whereby it was surrounded, as if a man, set down in a + meadow full of deep and clear springs, should elect to drink from a + shallow, torpid, and muddy trickle. Legislation, taxes, transportation + problems, the Greatness of Our City, our National Duty (whatever it might + be at the time—and according to opinion), the drink question, the + race problem, labor and capital; these were the reiterated topics, dealt + with informatively often, sometimes wittily, seldom impartially. But, at + best, this was but the creaking mechanism of the artificial structure of + society, and it was varied only by an occasional literary or artistic + sally, or a preachment in the terms of a convinced moralization upon the + unvarying text that the wages of sin is death. Why not a touch of + humanism, now and again, thought Banneker, following the inevitable + parallels in paper after paper; a ray of light striking through into the + life-texture beneath? + </p> + <p> + By way of experiment he watched the tide of readers, flowing through the + newspaper room of the Public Library, to ascertain what they read. Not one + in thirty paid any attention to the editorial pages. Essaying farther + afield, he attended church on several occasions. His suspicions were + confirmed; from the pulpit he heard, addressed to scanty congregations, + the same carefully phrased, strictly correct comments, now dealing, + however, with the mechanism of another world. The chief point of + difference was that the newspaper editorials were, on the whole, more + felicitously worded and more compactly thought out. Essentially, however, + the two ran parallel. + </p> + <p> + Banneker wondered whether the editorial rostrum, too, was fated to deliver + its would-be authoritative message to an audience which threatened to + dwindle to the vanishing point. Who read those carefully wrought columns + in The Ledger? Pot-bellied chair-warmers in clubs; hastening business men + appreciative of the daily assurance that stability is the primal and final + blessing, discontent the cardinal sin, the extant system perfect and holy, + and any change a wile of the forces of destruction—as if the human + race had evoluted by the power of standing still! For the man in the + street they held no message. No; nor for the woman in the home. Banneker + thought of young Smith of the yacht and the coming millions, with a + newspaper waiting to drop into his hands. He wished he could have that + newspaper—any newspaper, for a year. He’d make the man in the + street sit up and read his editorials. Yes, and the woman in the home. Why + not the boy and the girl in school, also? Any writer, really master of his + pen, ought to be able to make even a problem in algebra editorially + interesting! + </p> + <p> + And if he could make it interesting, he could make it pay.... But how was + he to profit by all this hard work, this conscientious technical training + to which he was devoting himself? True, it was improving his style. But + for the purposes of Ledger reporting, he wrote quite well enough. + Betterment here might be artistically satisfactory; financially it would + be fruitless. Already his space bills were the largest, consistently, on + the staff, due chiefly to his indefatigable industry in devoting every + spare office hour to writing his “Eban” sketches, now paid at + sixteen dollars a column, and Sunday “specials.” He might push + this up a little, but not much. + </p> + <p> + From the magazine field, expectations were meager in the immediate sense. + True, The Bon Vivant had accepted the story which The Era rejected; but it + had paid only seventy-five dollars. Banneker did not care to go farther on + that path. Aside from the unsatisfactory return, his fastidiousness + revolted from being identified with the output of a third-class and flashy + publication. Whatever The Ledger’s shortcomings, it at least stood + first in its field. But was there any future for him there, other than as + a conspicuously well-paid reporter? In spite of the critical situation + which his story of the Sippiac riots had brought about, he knew that he + was safe as long as he wished to stay. + </p> + <p> + “You’re too valuable to lose,” said Tommy Burt, swinging + his pudgy legs over Banneker’s desk, having finished one of his + mirthful stories of a row between a wine agent and a theatrical manager + over a doubly reserved table in a conspicuous restaurant. “Otherwise—phutt! + But they’ll be very careful what kind of assignments they hand over + to your reckless hands in future. You mustn’t throw expensive and + brittle conventions at the editor’s head. They smash.” + </p> + <p> + “And the fragments come back and cut. I know. But what does it all + lead to, Tommy?” + </p> + <p> + “Depends on which way you’re going.” + </p> + <p> + “To the top, naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “From anybody else that would sound blatant, Ban,” returned + Tommy admiringly. “Somehow you get away with it. Are you as sincere + as you act?” + </p> + <p> + “In so far as my intentions go. Of course, I may trip up and break + myself in two.” + </p> + <p> + “No. You’ll always fall light. There’s a buoyancy about + you.... But what about coming to the end of the path and finding nowhere + else to proceed?” + </p> + <p> + “Paragon of wisdom, you have stated the situation. Now produce the + answer.” + </p> + <p> + “More money?” inquired Tommy. + </p> + <p> + “More money. More opportunity.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’ve got to aim at the executive end. Begin by taking + a copy-desk.” + </p> + <p> + “At forty a week?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t so long ago that twenty-five looked pretty big to + you, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “A couple of centuries ago,” stated Banneker positively. + “Forty a week wouldn’t keep me alive now.” + </p> + <p> + “You could write a lot of specials. Or do outside work.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. But what would a desk lead to? + </p> + <p> + “City editor. Night city editor. Night editor. Managing editor at + fifteen thou.” + </p> + <p> + “After ten years. If one has the patience. I haven’t. Besides, + what chance would <i>I</i> have?’ + </p> + <p> + “None, with the present lot in the Inside Room. You’re a + heretic. You’re unsound. You’ve got dangerous ideas—accent + on the dangerous. I doubt if they’d even trust you with a blue + pencil. You might inject something radical into a thirty-head.” + </p> + <p> + “Tommy,” said Banneker, “I’m still new at this + game. What becomes of star reporters?” + </p> + <p> + “Drink,” replied Tommy brusquely. + </p> + <p> + “Rats!” retorted Banneker. “That’s guff. There + aren’t three heavy drinkers in this office.” + </p> + <p> + “A lot of the best men go that way,” persisted Burt. “It’s + the late hours and the irregular life, I suppose. Some drift out into + other lines. This office has trained a lot of playwrights and authors and + ad-men.” + </p> + <p> + “But some must stick.” + </p> + <p> + “They play out early. The game is too hard. They get to be hacks. <i>Or</i> + permanent desk-men. D’you know Philander Akely?” + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask me who he <i>was</i> and I’ll tell you. He was the + brilliant youngster, the coruscating firework, the—the Banneker of + ten years ago. Come into the den and meet him.” + </p> + <p> + In one of the inner rooms Banneker was introduced to a fragile, + desiccated-looking man languidly engaged in scissoring newspaper after + newspaper which he took from a pile and cast upon the floor after + operation. The clippings he filed in envelopes. A checkerboard lay on the + table beside him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you play draughts, Mr. Banneker?” he asked in a rumbling + bass. + </p> + <p> + “Very little and very poorly.” + </p> + <p> + The other sighed. “It is pure logic, in the form of contest. Far + more so than chess, which is merely sustained effort of concentration. Are + you interested in emblemology?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I know almost nothing of it,” confessed + Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Akely sighed again, gave Banneker a glance which proclaimed an utter lack + of interest, and plunged his shears into the editorial vitals of the + Springfield Republican. Tommy Burt led the surprised Banneker away. + </p> + <p> + “Dried up, played out, and given a measly thirty-five a week as + hopper-feeder for the editorial room,” he announced. “And he + was the star man of his time.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s pretty rotten treatment for him, then,” said + Banneker indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit of it. He isn’t worth what he gets. Most offices + would have chucked him out on the street.” + </p> + <p> + “What was his trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing in particular. Just wore his machine out. Everything going + out, nothing coming in. He spun out enough high-class copy to keep the + ordinary reporter going for a life-time; but he spun it out too fast. + Nothing left. The tragedy of it is that he’s quite happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it isn’t a tragedy at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Depends on whether you take the Christian or the Buddhist point of + view. He’s found his Nirvana in checker problems and collecting + literature about insignia. Write? I don’t suppose he’d want to + if he could. ‘There but for the grace of God goes’—you + or I. <i>I</i> think the <i>facilis descensus</i> to the gutter is almost + preferable.” + </p> + <p> + “So you’ve shown him to me as a dreadful warning, have you, + Tommy?” mused Banneker aloud. + </p> + <p> + “Get out of it, Ban; get out of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you get out of it yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Inertia. Or cowardice. And then, I haven’t come to the + turning-point yet. When I do reach it, perhaps it’ll be too late.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you reckon the turning-point?” + </p> + <p> + “As long as you feel the excitement of the game,” explained + this veteran of thirty, “you’re all right. That will keep you + going; the sense of adventure, of change, of being in the thick of things. + But there’s an underlying monotony, so they tell me: the monotony of + seeing things by glimpses, of never really completing a job, of being + inside important things, but never of them. That gets into your veins like + a clogging poison. Then you’re through. Quit it, Ban, before it’s + too late.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m not going to quit the game. It’s my game. I’m + going to beat it.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe. You’ve got the brains. But I think you’re too + stiff in the backbone. Go-to-hell-if-you-don’t-like-the-way-I-do-it + may be all right for a hundred-dollar-a-week job; but it doesn’t get + you a managing editorship at fifteen to twenty thousand. Even if it did, + you’d give up the go-to-hell attitude as soon as you landed, for + fear it would cost you your job and be too dear a luxury.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Mr. Walpole,” laughed Banneker. “When I find + what my price is, I’ll let you know. Meantime I’ll think over + your well-meant advice.” + </p> + <p> + If the normal way of advancement were closed to him in The Ledger office + because of his unsound and rebellious attitude on social and labor + questions, there might be better opportunities in other offices, Banneker + reflected. + </p> + <p> + Before taking any step he decided to talk over the general situation with + that experienced campaigner, Russell Edmonds. Him and his diminutive pipe + he found at Katie’s, after most of the diners had left. The veteran + nodded when Banneker told him of his having reached what appeared to be a + <i>cul-de-sac</i>. + </p> + <p> + “It’s about time you quit,” said Edmonds vigorously. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve changed your mind?” + </p> + <p> + The elder nodded between two spirals of smoke which gave him the + appearance of an important godling delivering oracles through incense. + “That was a dam’ bad story you wrote of the Sippiac killings.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t write it.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t uh? You were there.” + </p> + <p> + “My story went to the office cat.” + </p> + <p> + “What was the stuff they printed? Amalgamated Wire Association?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Machine-made rewrite in the office.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t dishonest. The Ledger’s too clever for that. + It was unhonest. You can’t be both neutral and fair on cold-blooded + murder.” + </p> + <p> + “You weren’t precisely neutral in The Courier.” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds chuckled. “I did rather put it over on the paper. But that + was easy. Simply a matter of lining up the facts in logical sequence.” + </p> + <p> + “Horace Vanney says you’re an anarchist.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s mutual. I think he’s one. To hell with all laws + and rights that discommode <i>Me</i> and <i>My</i> interests. That’s + the Vanney platform.” + </p> + <p> + “He thinks he ought to have advertised.” + </p> + <p> + “Wise guy! So he ought.” + </p> + <p> + “To secure immunity?” + </p> + <p> + It required six long, hard puffs to elicit from Edmonds the opinion: + “He’d have got it. Partly. Not all he paid for.” + </p> + <p> + “Not from The Ledger,” said Banneker jealously. “We’re + independent in that respect.” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds laughed. “You don’t have to bribe your own heeler. The + Ledger believes in Vanney’s kind of anarchism, as in a religion.” + </p> + <p> + “Could he have bought off The Courier?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing as raw as that. But it’s quite possible that if the + Sippiac Mills had been a heavy advertiser, the paper wouldn’t have + sent me to the riots. Some one more sympathetic, maybe.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t they kick on your story?” + </p> + <p> + “Who? The mill people? Howled!” + </p> + <p> + “But it didn’t get them anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t it! You know how difficult it is to get anything for + publication out of old Rockface Enderby. Well, I had a brilliant idea that + this was something he’d talk about. Law Enforcement stuff, you know. + And he did. Gave me a hummer of an interview. Tore the guts out of the + mill-owners for violating all sorts of laws, and put it up that the + mill-guards were themselves a lawless organization. There’s nothing + timid about Enderby. Why, we’d have started a controversy that would + be going yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, why didn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Interview was killed,” replied Edmonds, grinning ruefully. + “For the best interests of the paper. That’s what the Vanney + crowd’s kick got them.” + </p> + <p> + “Pop, what do you make of Willis Enderby?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s plodding along only a couple of decades behind his + time.” + </p> + <p> + “A reactionary?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t I say he was plodding along? A reactionary is + immovable except in the wrong direction. Enderby’s a conservative.” + </p> + <p> + “As a socialist you’re against any one who isn’t as + radical as you are.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not against Willis Enderby. I’m for him,” + grunted the veteran. + </p> + <p> + “Why; if he’s a conservative?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as for that, I can bring a long indictment against him. He’s + a firm believer in the capitalistic system. He’s enslaved to the old + economic theories, supply and demand, and all that rubbish from the ruins + of ancient Rome. He believes that gold is the only sound material for + pillars of society. The aristocratic idea is in his bones.” Edmonds, + by a feat of virtuosity, sent a thin, straight column of smoke, as it + might have been an allegorical and sardonic pillar itself, almost to the + ceiling. “But he believes in fair play. Free speech. Open field. The + rigor of the game. He’s a sportsman in life and affairs. That’s + why he’s dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + “Dangerous? To whom?” + </p> + <p> + “To the established order. To the present system. Why, son, all we + Socialists ask is fair play. Give us an even chance for labor, for the + proletariat; an even show before the courts, an open forum in the + newspapers, the right to organize as capital organizes, and we’ll + win. If we can’t win, we deserve to lose. I say that men like Willis + Enderby are our strongest supporters.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably he thinks his side will win, under the strict rules of the + game.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. But if he didn’t, he’d still be for fair + play, to the last inch.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a pretty fine thing to say of a man, Pop.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a pretty fine man,” said Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “What does Enderby want? What is he after?” + </p> + <p> + “For himself? Nothing. It’s something to be known as the + ablest honest lawyer in New York. Or, you can turn it around and say he’s + the honestest able lawyer in New York. I think, myself, you wouldn’t + be far astray if you said the ablest and honestest. No; he doesn’t + want anything more than what he’s got: his position, his money, his + reputation. Why should he? But it’s going to be forced on him one of + these days.” + </p> + <p> + “Politically?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Whatever there is of leadership in the reform element here + centers in him. It’s only a question of time when he’ll have + to carry the standard.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to be able to fall in behind him when the time + comes.” + </p> + <p> + “On The Ledger?” grunted Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “But I shan’t be on The Ledger when the time comes. Not if I + can find any other place to go.” + </p> + <p> + “Plenty of places,” affirmed Edmonds positively. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but will they give me the chance I want?” + </p> + <p> + “Not unless you make it for yourself. But let’s canvass + ’em. You want a morning paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Not enough salary in the evening field.” + </p> + <p> + “Well: you’ve thought of The Sphere first, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally. I like their editorial policy. Their news policy makes + me seasick.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not so strong for the editorials. They’re always + for reform and never for progress.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but that’s epigram.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s true, nevertheless. The Sphere is always tiptoeing up to + the edge of some decisive policy, and then running back in alarm. What of + The Observer? They’re looking for new blood.” + </p> + <p> + “The Observer! O Lord! Preaches the eternal banalities and believes + them the eternal verities.” + </p> + <p> + “Epigram, yourself,” grinned Edmonds. “Well, The + Monitor?” + </p> + <p> + “The three-card Monitor, and marked cards at that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; you’d have to watch the play. The Graphic then?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing but an ornamental ghost. The ghost of a once handsomely + kept lady. I don’t aspire to write daily epitaphs.” + </p> + <p> + “And The Messenger I suppose you wouldn’t even call a kept + lady. Too common. Babylonian stuff. But The Express is respectable enough + for anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “And conscious of it in every issue. One long and pious scold, after + a high-minded, bad-tempered formula of its own.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll give you a motto for your Ledger.” Edmonds + puffed it out enjoyably,—decorated with bluish and delicate whorls. + “‘<i>Meliora video proboque, deleriora sequor</i>.’” + </p> + <p> + “No; I won’t have that. The last part will do; we do follow + the worser way; but if we see the better, we don’t approve it. We + don’t even recognize it as the better. We’re honestly + convinced in our advocacy of the devil.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that we’re honestly convinced of anything + on The Courier, except of the desirability of keeping friendly with + everybody. But such as we are, we’d grab at you.” + </p> + <p> + “No; thanks, Pop. You yourself are enough in the troubled-water + duckling line for one old hen like The Courier.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there remains only The Patriot, friend of the Pee-pul.” + </p> + <p> + “Skimmed scum,” was Banneker’s prompt definition. + “And nothing in the soup underneath.” + </p> + <p> + Ernst, the waiter, scuttled across the floor below, and disappeared back + of the L-angle a few feet away. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody’s dining there,” remarked Edmonds, “while + we’ve been stripping the character off every paper in the field.” + </p> + <p> + “May it be all the editors and owners in a lump!” said + Banneker. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk louder. I’m + feeling reckless.” + </p> + <p> + “Bad frame of mind for a man seeking a job. By the way, what <i>are</i> + you out after, exactly? Aiming at the editorial page, aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker leaned over the table, his face earnest to the point of + somberness. “Pop,” he said, “you know I can write.” + </p> + <p> + “You can write like the devil,” Edmonds offered up on twin + supports of vapor. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and I can do more than that. I can think.” + </p> + <p> + “For self, or others?” propounded the veteran. + </p> + <p> + “I take you. I can think for myself and make it profitable to + others, if I can find the chance. Why, Pop, this editorial game is child’s + play!” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve tried it?” + </p> + <p> + “Experimentally. The opportunities are limitless. I could make + people read editorials as eagerly as they read scandal or baseball.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “By making them as simple and interesting as scandal or baseball.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! As easy as that,” observed Edmonds scornfully. “High + art, son! Nobody’s found the way yet. Perhaps, if—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, took his pipe from his lips and let his raised eyes level + themselves toward the corner of the L where appeared a figure. + </p> + <p> + “Would you gentlemen mind if I took my coffee with you?” said + the newcomer smoothly. + </p> + <p> + Banneker looked with questioning eyebrows toward Edmonds, who nodded. + “Come up and sit down, Mr. Marrineal,” invited Banneker, + moving his chair to leave a vacancy between himself and his companion. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + Tertius C. Marrineal was a man of forty, upon whom the years had laid no + bonds. A large fortune, founded by his able but illiterate father in the + timber stretches of the Great Lakes region, and spread out into various + profitable enterprises of mining, oil, cattle, and milling, provided him + with a constantly increasing income which, though no amateur at spending, + he could never quite overtake. Like many other hustlers of his day and + opportunity, old Steve Marrineal had married a shrewd little shopgirl who + had come up with him through the struggle by the slow, patient steps + described in many of our most improving biographies. As frequently occurs, + though it doesn’t get into the biographies, she who had played a + helpful role in adversity, could not withstand affluence. She bloated + physically and mentally, and became the juicy and unsuspecting victim of a + horde of parasites and flatterers who swarmed eagerly upon her, as soon as + the rough and contemptuous protection of her husband was removed by the + hand of a medical prodigy who advertised himself as the discoverer of a + new and infallible cure for cancer, and whom Mrs. Marrineal, with an + instinctive leaning toward quackery, had forced upon her spouse. + Appraising his prospective widow with an accurate eye, the dying man left + a testament bestowing the bulk of his fortune upon his son, with a few + heavy income-producing properties for Mrs. Marrineal. Tertius Marrineal + was devoted to his mother, with a jealous, pitying, and protective + affection. This is popularly approved as the infallible mark of a good + man. Tertius Marrineal was not a good man. + </p> + <p> + Nor was there any particular reason why he should be. Boys who have a + business pirate for father, and a weak-minded coddler for mother, seldom + grow into prize exhibits. Young Marrineal did rather better than might + have been expected, thanks to the presence at his birth-cradle of a robust + little good-fairy named Self-Preservation, who never gets half the credit + given to more picturesque but less important gift-bringers. He grew up + with an instinctive sense of when to stop. Sometimes he stopped + inopportunely. He quit several courses of schooling too soon, because he + did not like the unyielding regimen of the institutions. When, a little, + belated, he contrived to gain entrance to a small, old, and fashionable + Eastern college, he was able, or perhaps willing, to go only halfway + through his sophomore year. Two years in world travel with a + well-accredited tutor seemed to offer an effectual and not too rigorous + method of completing the process of mind-formation. Young Marrineal got a + great deal out of that trip, though the result should perhaps be set down + under the E of Experience rather than that of Erudition. The mentor also + acquired experience, but it profited him little, as he died within the + year after the completion of the trip, his health having been sacrificed + in a too conscientious endeavor to keep even pace with his pupil. Young + Marrineal did not suffer in health. He was a robust specimen. Besides, + there was his good and protective fairy always ready with the flag of + warning at the necessary moment. + </p> + <p> + Launched into the world after the elder Marrineal’s death, Tertius + interested himself in sundry of the businesses left by his father. Though + they had been carefully devised and surrounded with safeguards, the heir + managed to break into and improve several of them. The result was more + money. After having gambled with fair luck, played the profuse libertine + for a time, tried his hand at yachting, horse-racing, big-game hunting, + and even politics, he successively tired of the first three, and was + beaten at the last, but retained an unsatisfied hunger for it. To + celebrate his fortieth birthday, he had bought a house on the eastern + vista of Central Park, and drifted into a rather indeterminate life, + identified with no special purpose, occupation, or set. Large though his + fortune was, it was too much disseminated and he was too indifferent to + it, for him to be conspicuous in the money game which constitutes New York’s + lists of High Endeavor. His reputation, in the city of careless + reckonings, was vague, but just a trifle tarnished; good enough for the + casual contacts which had hitherto made up his life, but offering + difficulties should he wish to establish himself more firmly. + </p> + <p> + The best clubs were closed to him; he had reached his possible summit + along that path in achieving membership in the recently and superbly + established Oligarchs Club, which was sumptuous, but over-vivid like a new + Oriental rug. As to other social advancement, his record was an obstacle. + Not that it was worse than, nor indeed nearly as bad as, that of many an + established member of the inner circle; but the test for an outsider + seeking admittance is naturally made more severe. Delavan Eyre, for + example, an average sinner for one of his opportunities and standing, had + certainly no better a general repute, and latterly a much more dubious one + than Marrineal. But Eyre “belonged” of right. + </p> + <p> + As sufficient indication of Marrineal’s status, by the way, it may + be pointed out that, while he knew Eyre quite well, it was highly + improbable that he would ever know Mrs. Eyre, or, if he did fortuitously + come to know her, that he would be able to improve upon the acquaintance. + All this Marrineal himself well understood. But it must not be inferred + that he resented it. He was far too much of a philosopher for that. It + amused him as offering a new game to be played, more difficult certainly + and inferentially more interesting than any of those which had hitherto + enlisted his somewhat languid efforts. He appreciated also, though with a + cynical disbelief in the logic of the situation, that he must polish up + his reputation. He was on the new quest at the time when he overheard + Banneker and Edmonds discuss the journalistic situation in Katie’s + restaurant, and had already determined upon his procedure. + </p> + <p> + Sitting between the two newspaper workers, Marrineal overtopped them both; + the supple strength of Banneker as well as the gnarly slenderness of + Edmonds. He gave an impression of loose-jointed and rather lazy power; + also of quiet self-confidence. He began to talk at once, with the easy, + drifting commentary of a man who had seen everything, measured much, and + liked the glittering show. Both of the others, one his elder, the other + his junior, felt the ready charm of the man. Both were content to listen, + waiting for the clue to his intrusion which he had contrived to make not + only inoffensive, but seemingly a casual act of good-fellowship. The clue + was not afforded, but presently some shrewd opinion of the newcomer upon + the local political situation set them both to discussion. Quite + insensibly Marrineal withdrew from the conversation, sipping his coffee + and listening with an effect of effortless amenity. + </p> + <p> + “If we had a newspaper here that wasn’t tied hard and fast, + politically!” cried Edmonds presently. + </p> + <p> + Marrineal fingered a specially fragrant cigar. “But a newspaper must + be tied to something, mustn’t it?” he queried. “Otherwise + it drifts.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not to its reading public?” suggested Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “That’s an idea. But can you tie to a public? Isn’t the + public itself adrift, like seaweed?” + </p> + <p> + “Blown about by the gales of politics.” Edmonds accepted the + figure. “Well, the newspaper ought to be the gale.” + </p> + <p> + “I gather that you gentlemen do not think highly of present + journalistic conditions.” + </p> + <p> + “You overheard our discussion,” said Banneker bluntly. + </p> + <p> + Marrineal assented. “It did not seem private. Katie’s is a + sort of free forum. That is why I come. I like to listen. Besides, it + touched me pretty closely at one or two points.” + </p> + <p> + The two others turned toward him, waiting. He nodded, and took upon + himself an air of well-pondered frankness. “I expect to take a more + active part in journalism from now on.” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds followed up the significant phrase. “<i>More</i> active? You + have newspaper interests?” + </p> + <p> + “Practically speaking, I own The Patriot. What do you gentlemen + think of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Who reads The Patriot?” inquired Banneker. He was unprepared + for the swift and surprised flash from Marrineal’s fine eyes, as if + some profoundly analytical or revealing suggestion had been made. + </p> + <p> + “Forty thousand men, women, and children. Not half enough, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a tenth enough, I would say, if I owned the paper. Nor are they + the right kind of readers.” + </p> + <p> + “How would you define them, then?” asked Marrineal, still in + that smooth voice. + </p> + <p> + “Small clerks. Race-track followers. People living in that class of + tenements which call themselves flats. The more intelligent servants. + Totally unimportant people.” + </p> + <p> + “Therefore a totally unimportant paper?” + </p> + <p> + “A paper can be important only through what it makes people believe + and think. What possible difference can it make what The Patriot’s + readers think?” + </p> + <p> + “If there were enough of them?” suggested Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “No. Besides, you’ll never get enough of them, in the way you’re + running the paper now.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say ‘you,’ please,” besought + Marrineal. “I’ve been keeping my hands off. Watching.” + </p> + <p> + “And now you’re going to take hold?” queried Edmonds. + “Personally?” + </p> + <p> + “As soon as I can find my formula—and the men to help me work + it out,” he added, after a pause so nicely emphasized that both his + hearers had a simultaneous inkling of the reason for his being at their + table. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen newspapers run on formula before,” muttered + Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Onto the rocks?” + </p> + <p> + “Invariably.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s because the formulas were amateur formulas, isn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + The veteran of a quarter-century turned a mildly quizzical smile upon the + adventurer into risky waters. “Well?” he jerked out. + </p> + <p> + Marrineal’s face was quite serious as he took up the obvious + implication. “Where is the dividing line between professional and + amateur in the newspaper business? You gentlemen will bear with me if I go + into personal details a little. I suppose I’ve always had the + newspaper idea. When I was a youngster of twenty, I tried myself out. Got + a job as a reporter in St. Louis. It was just a callow escapade. And of + course it couldn’t last. I was an undisciplined sort of cub. They + fired me; quite right, too. But I did learn a little. And at least it + educated me in one thing; how to read newspapers.” He laughed + lightly. “Perhaps that is as nearly thorough an education as I’ve + ever had in anything.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s rather an art, newspaper reading,” observed + Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve tried it, I gather. So have I, rather exhaustively in + the last year. I’ve been reading every paper in New York every day + and all through.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a job for an able-minded man,” commented + Edmonds, looking at him with a new respect. + </p> + <p> + “It put eye-glasses on me. But if it dimmed my eyes, it enlightened + my mind. The combined newspapers of New York do not cover the available + field. They do not begin to cover it.... Did you say something, Mr. + Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “Did I? I didn’t mean to,” said Banneker hastily. + “I’m a good deal interested.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad to hear that,” returned Marrineal with + gravity. “After I’d made my estimate of what the newspapers + publish and fail to publish, I canvassed the circulation lists and + news-stands and made another discovery. There is a large potential reading + public not yet tied up to any newspaper. It’s waiting for the right + paper.” + </p> + <p> + “The imputation of amateurishness is retracted, with apologies,” + announced Russell Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Accepted. Though there are amateur areas yet in my mind. I bought + The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “Does that represent one of the areas?” + </p> + <p> + “It represents nothing, thus far, except what it has always + represented, a hand-to-mouth policy and a financial deficit. But what’s + wrong with it from your point of view?” + </p> + <p> + “Cheap and nasty,” was the veteran’s succinct criticism. + </p> + <p> + “Any more so than The Sphere? The Sphere’s successful.” + </p> + <p> + “Because it plays fair with the main facts. It may gloss ’em + up with a touch of sensationalism, like the oil on a barkeep’s hair. + But it does go after the facts, and pretty generally it presents ’em + as found. The Patriot is fakey; clumsy at it, too. Any man arrested with + more than five dollars in his pocket is a millionaire clubman. If Bridget + O’Flaherty jumps off Brooklyn Bridge, she becomes a prominent + society woman with picture (hers or somebody else’s) in The Patriot. + And the cheapest little chorus-girl tart, who blackmails a broker’s + clerk with a breach of promise, gets herself called a ‘distinguished + actress’ and him a ‘well-known financier.’ Why steal the + Police Gazette’s rouge and lip-stick?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it’s what the readers want.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. But at least give it to ’em well done. And cut out + the printing of wild rumors as news. That doesn’t get a paper + anything in the long run. None of your readers have any faith in The + Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “Does any paper have the confidence of its public?” returned + Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + Touched upon a sensitive spot, Edmonds cursed briefly. “If it hasn’t, + it’s because the public has a dam’-fool fad for pretending it + doesn’t believe what it reads. Of course it believes it! Otherwise, + how would it know who’s president, or that the market sagged + yesterday? This ‘I-never-believe-what-I-read-in-the-papers’ guff + makes me sick to the tips of my toes.” + </p> + <p> + “Only the man who knows newspapers from the inside can disbelieve + them scientifically,” put in Banneker with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “What would <i>you</i> do with The Patriot if you had it?” + interrogated the proprietor. + </p> + <p> + “I? Oh, I’d try to make it interesting,” was the prompt + and simple reply. + </p> + <p> + “How, interesting?” + </p> + <p> + For his own purposes Banneker chose to misinterpret the purport of the + question. “So interesting that half a million people would have to + read it.” + </p> + <p> + “You think you could do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it could be done.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come with me and try it?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re offering me a place on The Patriot staff?” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. Mr. Edmonds is joining.” + </p> + <p> + That gentleman breathed a small cloud of blue vapor into the air together + with the dispassionate query: “Is that so? Hadn’t heard of it.” + </p> + <p> + “My principle in business is to determine whether I want a man or an + article, and then bid a price that can’t be rejected.” + </p> + <p> + “Sound,” admitted the veteran. “Perfectly sound. But I’m + not specially in need of money.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m offering you opportunity.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind?” + </p> + <p> + “Opportunity to handle big stories according to the facts as you see + them. Not as you had to handle the Sippiac strike story.” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds set down his pipe. “What did you think of that?” + </p> + <p> + “A masterpiece of hinting and suggestion and information for those + who can read between the lines. Not many have the eye for it. With me you + won’t have to write between the lines. Not on labor or political + questions, anyway. You’re a Socialist, aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You’re not going to make The Patriot a Socialist paper, + are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Some people might call it that. I’m going to make it a + popular paper. It’s going to be for the many against the few. How + are you going to bring about Socialism?” + </p> + <p> + “Education.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly! What better chance could you ask? A paper devoted to the + interests of the masses, and willing to print facts. I want you to do the + same sort of thing that you’ve been doing for The Courier; a job of + handling the big, general stories. You’ll be responsible to me + alone. The salary will be a third higher than you are now getting. Think + it over.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve thought. I’m bought,” said Russell Edmonds. + He resumed his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “And you, Mr. Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not a Socialist, in the party sense. Besides a Socialist + paper in New York has no chance of big circulation.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, The Patriot isn’t going to tag itself. Politically it + will be independent. Its policy will be socialistic only in that it will + be for labor rather than capital and for the under dog as against the + upper dog. It certainly won’t tie up to the Socialist Party or + advocate its principles. It’s for fair play and education.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s your purpose?” demanded Banneker. “Money?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve a very comfortable income,” replied Marrineal + modestly. + </p> + <p> + “Political advancement? Influence? Want to pull the wires?” + persisted the other. + </p> + <p> + “The game. I’m out of employment and tired of it.” + </p> + <p> + “And you think I could be of use in your plan? But you don’t + know much about me.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal murmured smilingly something indefinite but complimentary as to + Banneker’s reputation on Park Row; but this was by no means a fair + index to what he knew about Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, that prematurely successful reporter would have been surprised at + the extent to which Marrineal’s private investigations had gone. Not + only was the purchaser of The Patriot apprised of Banneker’s + professional career in detail, but he knew of his former employment, and + also of his membership in The Retreat, which he regarded with perplexity + and admiration. Marrineal was skilled at ascertainments. He made a + specialty of knowing all about people. + </p> + <p> + “With Mr. Edmonds on roving commission and you to handle the big + local stuff,” he pursued, “we should have the nucleus of a + news organization. Like him, you would be responsible to me alone. And, of + course, it would be made worth your while. What do you think? Will you + join us?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” There was no slightest hint of disappointment, surprise, + or resentment in Marrineal’s manner. “Do you mind giving me + the reason?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care to be a reporter on The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, this would hardly be reporting. At least, a very specialized + and important type.” + </p> + <p> + “For that matter, I don’t care to be a reporter on any paper + much longer. Besides, you need me—or some one—in another + department more than in the news section.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t like the editorials,” was the inference which + Marrineal drew from this, and correctly. + </p> + <p> + “I think they’re solemn flapdoodle.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I. Occasionally I write them myself and send them in quietly. + It isn’t known yet that I own the property; so I don’t appear + at the office. Mine are quite as solemn and flapdoodlish as the others. To + which quality do you object the most?” + </p> + <p> + “Solemnity. It’s the blight of editorial expression. All the + papers suffer from it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you wouldn’t have the editorial page modeled on that of + any of our contemporaries.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I’d try to make it interesting. There isn’t a page + in town that the average man-in-the-street-car can read without a painful + effort at thought.” + </p> + <p> + “Editorials are supposed to be for thinking men,” put in + Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Make the thinking easy, then. Don’t make it hard, with heavy + words and a didactic manner. Talk to ’em. You’re trying to + reach for their brain mechanism. Wrong idea. Reach for their coat-lapels. + Hook a finger in the buttonholes and tell ’em something about common + things they never stopped to consider. Our editorializers are always + tucking their hands into their oratorical bosoms and discoursing in a + sonorous voice about freight differentials as an element in stabilizing + the market. How does that affect Jim Jones? Why, Jim turns to the sporting + page. But if you say to him casually, in print, ‘Do you realize that + every woman who brings a child into the world shows more heroism than + Teddy Roosevelt when he charged up San Juan Hill?’—what’ll + Jim do about that? Turn to the sporting page just the same, maybe. But + after he’s absorbed the ball-scores, he’ll turn back to the + editorial. You see, he never thought about Mrs. Jones just that way + before.” + </p> + <p> + “Sentimentalism,” observed Marrineal. “Not altogether + original, either.” But he did not speak as a critic. Rather as one + pondering upon new vistas of thought. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t an editorial be sentimental about something + besides the starry flag and the boyhood of its party’s candidate? + Original? I shouldn’t worry overmuch about that. All my time would + be occupied in trying to be interesting. After I got ’em interested, + I could perhaps be instructive. Very cautiously, though. But always man to + man: that’s the editorial trick, as I see it. Not preacher to + congregation.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are your editorials, son?” asked the veteran Edmonds + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Locked up.” Banneker tapped his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “In the place of their birth?” smiled Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t want too much credit for my idea. A fair share of + it belongs to a bald-headed and snarling old nondescript whom I met one + day in the Public Library and shall probably never meet again anywhere. + Somebody had pointed me out—it was after that shooting mess—and + the old fellow came up to me and growled out, ‘Employed on a + newspaper?’ I admitted it. ‘What do you know about news?’ + was his next question. Well, I’m always open to any fresh slants on + the business, so I asked him politely what he knew. He put on an + expression like a prayerful owl and said, ‘Suppose I came into your + office with the information that a destructive plague was killing off the + earthworms?’ Naturally, I thought one of the librarians had put up a + joke on me; so I said, ‘Refer you to the Anglers’ Department + of the All-Outdoors Monthly.’ ‘That is as far as you could see + into the information?’ he said severely. I had to confess that it + was. ‘And you are supposed to be a judge of news!’ he snarled. + Well, he seemed so upset about it that I tried to be soothing by asking + him if there was an earthworm pestilence in progress. ‘No,’ + answers he, ‘and lucky for you. For if the earthworms all died, so would + you and the rest of us, including your accursed brood of newspapers, which + would be some compensation. Read Darwin,’ croaks the old bird, and + calls me a callow fool, and flits.” + </p> + <p> + “Who was he? Did you find out?” asked Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Some scientific grubber from the museum. I looked up the Darwin + book and decided that he was right; not Darwin; the old croaker.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, that was not precisely news,” pointed out Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “Theoretical news. I’m not sure,” pursued Banneker, + struck with a new idea, “that that isn’t the formula for + editorial writing; theoretical news. Supplemented by analytical news, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + “Philosophizing over Darwin and dead worms would hardly inspire half + a million readers to follow your editorial output, day after day.” + Marrineal delivered his opinion suavely. + </p> + <p> + “Not if written in the usual style, suggesting a conscientious + rehash of the encyclopedia. But suppose it were done differently, and with + a caption like this, ‘Why Does an Angle-Worm Wriggle?’ Set + that in irregular type that weaved and squirmed across the column, and + Jones-in-the-street-car would at least look at it.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens! I should think so,” assented Marrineal. “And + call for the police.” + </p> + <p> + “Or, if that is too sensational,” continued Banneker, warming + up, “we could head it ‘Charles Darwin Would Never Go Fishing, + Because’ and a heavy dash after ‘because.’” + </p> + <p> + “Fakey,” pronounced Edmonds. “Still, I don’t know + that there’s any harm in that kind of faking.” + </p> + <p> + “Merely a trick to catch the eye. I don’t know whether Darwin + ever went fishing or not. Probably he did if only for his researches. But, + in essentials, I’m giving ’em a truth; a big truth.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” inquired Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “Solemn sermonizers would call it the inter-relations of life or + something to that effect. What I’m after is to coax ’em to + think a little.” + </p> + <p> + “About angle-worms?” + </p> + <p> + “About anything. It’s the process I’m after. Only let me + start them thinking about evolution and pretty soon I’ll have them + thinking about the relations of modern society—and thinking my way. + Five hundred thousand people, all thinking in the way we told ’em to + think—” + </p> + <p> + “Could elect Willis Enderby mayor of New York,” interjected + the practical Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + Marrineal, whose face had become quite expressionless, gave a little + start. “Who?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Judge Enderby of the Law Enforcement Society.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Yes. Of course. Or any one else.” + </p> + <p> + “Or any one else,” agreed Banneker, catching a quick, informed + glance from Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Frankly, your scheme seems a little fantastic to me,” + pronounced the owner of The Patriot. “But that may be only because + it’s new. It might be worth trying out.” He reverted again to + his expressionless reverie, out of which exhaled the observation: “I + wonder what the present editorial staff could do with that.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I to infer that you intend to help yourself to my idea?” + inquired Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marrineal aroused himself hastily from his editorial dream. Though by + no means a fearful person, he was uncomfortably sensible of a menace, + imminent and formidable. It was not in Banneker’s placid face, nor + in the unaltered tone wherein the pertinent query was couched. + Nevertheless, the object of that query became aware that young Banneker + was not a person to be trifled with. He now went on, equably to say: + </p> + <p> + “Because, if you do, it might be as well to give me the chance of + developing it.” + </p> + <p> + Possibly the “Of course,” with which Marrineal responded to + this reasonable suggestion, was just a little bit over-prompt. + </p> + <p> + “Give me ten days. No: two weeks, and I’ll be ready to show my + wares. Where can I find you?” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal gave a telephone address. “It isn’t in the book,” + he said. “It will always get me between 9 A.M. and noon.” + </p> + <p> + They talked of matters journalistic, Marrineal lapsing tactfully into the + role of attentive listener again, until there appeared in the lower room a + dark-faced man of thirty-odd, spruce and alert, who, upon sighting them, + came confidently forward. Marrineal ordered him a drink and presented him + to the two journalists as Mr. Ely Ives. As Mr. Ives, it appeared, was in + the secret of Marrineal’s journalistic connection, the talk was + resumed, becoming more general. Presently Marrineal consulted his watch. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not going up to the After-Theater Club to-night?” + he asked Banneker, and, on receiving a negative reply, made his adieus and + went out with Ives to his waiting car. + </p> + <p> + Banneker and Edmonds looked at each other. “Don’t both speak + at once,” chuckled Banneker. “What do <i>you</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Think of him? He’s a smooth article. Very smooth. But I’ve + seen ’em before that were straight as well as smooth.” + </p> + <p> + “Bland,” said Banneker. “Bland with a surpassing + blandness. A blandness amounting to blandeur, as grandness in the highest + degree becomes grandeur. I like that word,” Banneker chucklingly + approved himself. “But I wouldn’t use it in an editorial, one + of those editorials that our genial friend was going to appropriate so + coolly. A touch of the pirate in him, I think. I like him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; you have to. He makes himself likable. What do you figure Mr. + Ely Ives to be?” + </p> + <p> + “Henchman.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know him?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen him uptown, once or twice. He has some reputation + as an amateur juggler.” + </p> + <p> + “I know him, too. But he doesn’t remember me or he wouldn’t + have been so pleasant,” said the veteran, committing two errors in + one sentence, for Ely Ives had remembered him perfectly, and in any case + would never have exhibited any unnecessary rancor in his carefully trained + manner. “Wrote a story about him once. He’s quite a betting + man; some say a sure-thing bettor. Several years ago Bob Wessington was + giving one of his famous booze parties on board his yacht ‘The + Water-Wain,’ and this chap was in on it somehow. When everybody was + tanked up, they got to doing stunts and he bet a thousand with Wessington + he could swarm up the backstay to the masthead. Two others wished in for a + thousand apiece, and he cleaned up the lot. It cut his hands up pretty + bad, but that was cheap at three thousand. Afterwards it turned out that + he’d been practicing that very climb in heavy gloves, down in South + Brooklyn. So I wrote the story. He came back with a threat of a libel + suit. Fool bluff, for it wasn’t libelous. But I looked up his record + a little and found he was an ex-medical student, from Chicago, where he’d + been on The Chronicle for a while. He quit that to become a press-agent + for a group of oil-gamblers, and must have done some good selling himself, + for he had money when he landed here. To the best of my knowledge he is + now a sort of lookout for the Combination Traction people, with some + connection with the City Illuminating Company on the side. It’s a + secret sort of connection.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker made the world-wide symbolistic finger-shuffle of money-handling. + “Legislative?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Possibly. But it’s more keeping a watch on publicity and + politics. He gives himself out as a man-about-town, and is supposed to + make a good thing out of the market. Maybe he does, though I notice that + generally the market makes a good thing out of the smart guy who tries to + beat it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a particularly desirable person for a colleague.” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt if he’d be Marrineal’s colleague exactly. The + inside of the newspaper isn’t his game. More likely he’s + making himself attractive and useful to Marrineal just to find out what he’s + up to with his paper.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll show him something interesting if I get hold of that + editorial page.” + </p> + <p> + “Son, are you up to it, d’you think?” asked Edmonds with + affectionate solicitude. “It takes a lot of experience to handle + policies.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll have you with me, won’t I, Pop? Besides, if my + little scheme works, I’m going out to gather experience like a bee + after honey.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll make a queer team, we three,” mused the veteran, + shaking his bony head, as he leaned forward over his tiny pipe. His + protuberant forehead seemed to overhang the idea protectively. Or perhaps + threateningly. “None of us looks at a newspaper from the same angle + or as the same kind of a machine as the others view it.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind our views. They’ll assimilate. What about his?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I wish I knew. But he wants something. Like all of us.” A + shade passed across the clearly modeled severity of the face. Edmonds + sighed. “I don’t know but that I’m too old for this kind + of experiment. Yet I’ve fallen for the temptation.” + </p> + <p> + “Pop,” said Banneker with abrupt irrelevance, “there’s + a line from Emerson that you make me think of when you look like that. + ‘His sad lucidity of soul.’” + </p> + <p> + “Do I? But it isn’t Emerson. It’s Matthew Arnold.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you find time for poetry, you old wheelhorse! Never mind; + you ought to be painted as the living embodiment of that line.” + </p> + <p> + “Or as a wooden automaton, jumping at the end of a special wire from + ‘our correspondent.’ Ban, can you see Marrineal’s hand on a + wire?” + </p> + <p> + “If it’s plain enough to be visible, I’m underestimating + his tact. I’d like to have a lock of his hair to dream on to-night. + I’m off to think things over, Pop. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker walked uptown, through dimmed streets humming with the harmonic + echoes of the city’s never-ending life, faint and delicate. He + stopped at Sherry’s, and at a small table in the side room sat down + with a bottle of ale, a cigarette, and some stationery. When he rose, it + was to mail a letter. That done, he went back to his costly little + apartment upon which the rent would be due in a few days. He had the cash + in hand: that was all right. As for the next month, he wondered humorously + whether he would have the wherewithal to meet the recurring bill, not to + mention others. However, the consideration was not weighty enough to keep + him sleepless. + </p> + <p> + Custom kindly provides its own patent shock-absorbers to all the various + organisms of nature; otherwise the whole regime would perish. Necessarily + a newspaper is among the best protected of organisms against shock: it + deals, as one might say, largely in shocks, and its hand is subdued to + what it works in. Nevertheless, on the following noon The Ledger office + was agitated as it hardly would have been had Brooklyn Bridge fallen into + the East River, or the stalest mummy in the Natural History Museum shown + stirrings of life. A word was passing from eager mouth to incredulous ear. + </p> + <p> + Banneker had resigned. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + Looking out of the front window, into the decorum of Grove Street, Mrs. + Brashear could hardly credit the testimony of her glorified eyes. Could + the occupant of the taxi indeed be Mr. Banneker whom, a few months before + and most sorrowfully, she had sacrificed to the stern respectability of + the house? And was it possible, as the very elegant trunk inscribed + “E.B.—New York City” indicated, that he was coming back + as a lodger? For the first time in her long and correct professional + career, the landlady felt an unqualified bitterness in the fact that all + her rooms were occupied. + </p> + <p> + The occupant of the taxi jumped out and ran lightly up the steps. + </p> + <p> + “How d’you do, Mrs. Brashear. Am I still excommunicated?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Banneker! I’m <i>so</i> glad to see you. If I could + tell you how often I’ve blamed myself—” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s forget all that. The point is I’ve come back.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear! I do hate not to take you in. But there isn’t a + spot.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s got my old room?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Hainer.” + </p> + <p> + “Hainer? Let’s turn him out.” + </p> + <p> + “I would in a minute,” declared the ungrateful landlady to + whom Mr. Hainer had always been a model lodger. “But the law—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ll fix Hainer if you’ll fix the room.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” asked the bewildered Mrs. Brashear. + </p> + <p> + “The room? Just as it used to be. Bed, table, couple of chairs, + bookshelf.” + </p> + <p> + “But Mr. Hainer’s things?” + </p> + <p> + “Store ’em. It’ll be for only a month.” + </p> + <p> + Leaving his trunk, Banneker sallied forth in smiling confidence to accost + and transfer the unsuspecting occupant of his room. To achieve this, it + was necessary only to convince the object of the scheme that the + incredible offer was made in good faith; an apartment in the “swell” + Regalton, luxuriously furnished, service and breakfast included, rent free + for a whole month. A fairy-tale for the prosaic Hainer to be gloated over + for the rest of his life! Very quietly, for this was part of the bargain, + the middle-aged accountant moved to his new glories and Banneker took his + old quarters. It was all accomplished that evening. The refurnishing was + finished on the following day. + </p> + <p> + “But what are you doing it for, if I may be so bold, Mr. Banneker?” + asked the landlady. + </p> + <p> + “Peace, quiet, and work,” he answered gayly. “Just to be + where nobody can find me, while I do a job.” + </p> + <p> + Here, as in the old, jobless days, Banneker settled down to concentrated + and happy toil. Always a creature of Spartan self-discipline in the matter + of work, he took on, in this quiet and remote environment, new energies. + Miss Westlake, recipient of the output as it came from the hard-driven + pen, was secretly disquieted. Could any human being maintain such a pace + without collapse? Day after day, the devotee of the third-floor-front rose + at seven, breakfasted from a thermos bottle and a tin box, and set upon + his writing; lunched hastily around the corner, returned with armfuls of + newspapers which he skimmed as a preliminary to a second long bout with + his pen; allowed himself an hour for dinner, and came back to resume the + never-ending task. As in the days of the “Eban” sketches, now + on the press for book publication, it was write, rewrite, and re-rewrite, + the typed sheets coming back to Miss Westlake amended, interlined, + corrected, but always successively shortened and simplified. Profitable, + indeed, for the solicitous little typist; but she ventured, after a + fortnight of it, to remonstrate on the score of ordinary prudence. + Banneker laughed, though he was touched, too, by her interest. + </p> + <p> + “I’m indestructible,” he assured her. “But next + week I shall run around outside a little.” + </p> + <p> + “You must,” she insisted. + </p> + <p> + “Field-work, I believe they call it. The Elysian Fields of Manhattan + Island. Perhaps you’ll come with me sometimes and see that I attend + properly to my recreation.” + </p> + <p> + Curiosity as well as a mere personal interest prompted her to accept. She + did not understand the purpose of these strange and vivid writings + committed to her hands, so different from any of the earlier of Mr. + Banneker’s productions; so different, indeed, from anything that she + had hitherto seen in any print. Nor did she derive full enlightenment from + her Elysian journeys with the writer. They seemed to be casual if not + aimless. The pair traveled about on street-cars, L trains, Fifth Avenue + buses, dined in queer, crowded restaurants, drank in foreign-appearing + beer-halls, went to meetings, to Cooper Union forums, to the Art Gallery, + the Aquarium, the Museum of Natural History, to dances in East-Side halls: + and everywhere, by virtue of his easy and graceful good-fellowship, + Banneker picked up acquaintances, entered into their discussions, listened + to their opinions and solemn dicta, agreeing or controverting with equal + good-humor, and all, one might have carelessly supposed, in the idlest + spirit of a light-minded Haroun al Raschid. + </p> + <p> + “What is it all about, if you don’t mind telling?” asked + his companion as he bade her good-night early one morning. + </p> + <p> + “To find what people naturally talk about,” was the ready + answer. + </p> + <p> + “And then?” + </p> + <p> + “To talk with them about what interests them. In print.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it isn’t Elysian-fielding at all.” + </p> + <p> + “No. It’s work. Hard work.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you do after it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sit up and write for a while.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll break down.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! It’s good for me.” + </p> + <p> + And, indeed, it was better for him than the alternative of trying to sleep + without the anodyne of complete exhaustion. For again, his hours were + haunted by the not-to-be-laid spirit of Io Welland. As in those earlier + days when, with hot eyes and set teeth, he had sent up his nightly prayer + for deliverance from the powers of the past— + </p> + <p> + “Heaven shield and keep us free From the wizard, Memory And his + cruel necromancies!”— + </p> + <p> + she came back to her old sway over his soul, and would not be exorcised.—So + he drugged his brain against her with the opiate of weariness. + </p> + <p> + Three of his four weeks had passed when Banneker began to whistle at his + daily stent. Thereafter small boys, grimy with printer’s ink, called + occasionally, received instructions and departed, and there emanated from + his room the clean and bitter smell of paste, and the clip of shears. + Despite all these new activities, the supply of manuscript for Miss + Westlake’s typewriter never failed. One afternoon Banneker knocked + at the door, asked her if she thought she could take dictation direct, and + on her replying doubtfully that she could try, transferred her and her + machine to his den, which was littered with newspapers, proof-sheets, and + foolscap. Walking to and fro with a sheet of the latter inscribed with a + few notes in his hand, the hermit proceeded to deliver himself to the + briskly clicking writing machine. + </p> + <p> + “Three-em dash,” said he at the close. “That seemed to + go fairly well.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you training me?” asked Miss Westlake. + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m training myself. It’s easier to write, but it’s + quicker to talk. Some day I’m going to be really busy”—Miss + Westlake gasped—“and time-saving will be important. Shall we + try it again to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “I could brush up my shorthand and take it quicker.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know shorthand?” He looked at her contemplatively. + “Would you care to take a regular position, paying rather better + than this casual work?” + </p> + <p> + “With you?” asked Miss Westlake in a tone which constituted a + sufficient acceptance. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Always supposing that I land one myself. I’m in a big + gamble, and these,” he swept a hand over the littered accumulations, + “are my cards. If they’re good enough, I’ll win.” + </p> + <p> + “They are good enough,” said Miss Westlake with simple faith. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll know to-morrow,” replied Banneker. + </p> + <p> + For a young man, jobless, highly unsettled of prospects, the ratio of + whose debts to his assets was inversely to what it should have been, + Banneker presented a singularly care-free aspect when, at 11 A.M. of a + rainy morning, he called at Mr. Tertius Marrineal’s Fifth Avenue + house, bringing with him a suitcase heavily packed. Mr. Marrineal’s + personal Jap took over the burden and conducted it and its owner to a + small rear room at the top of the house. Banneker apprehended at the first + glance that this was a room for work. Mr. Marrineal, rising from behind a + broad, glass-topped table with his accustomed amiable smile, also looked + workmanlike. + </p> + <p> + “You have decided to come with us, I hope,” said he pleasantly + enough, yet with a casual politeness which might have been meant to + suggest a measure of indifference. Banneker at once caught the note of + bargaining. + </p> + <p> + “If you think my ideas are worth my price,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s have the ideas.” + </p> + <p> + “No trouble to show goods,” Banneker said, unclasping the + suitcase. He preferred to keep the talk in light tone until his time came. + From the case he extracted two close-packed piles of news-print, folded in + half. + </p> + <p> + “Coals to Newcastle,” smiled Marrineal. “These seem to + be copies of The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “Not exact copies. Try this one.” Selecting an issue at random + he passed it to the other. + </p> + <p> + Marrineal went into it carefully, turning from the front page to the + inside, and again farther in the interior, without comment. Nor did he + speak at once when he came to the editorial page. But he glanced up at + Banneker before settling down to read. + </p> + <p> + “Very interesting,” he said presently, in a non-committal + manner. “Have you more?” + </p> + <p> + Silently Banneker transferred to the table-top the remainder of the + suitcase’s contents. Choosing half a dozen at random, Marrineal + turned each inside out and studied the editorial columns. His expression + did not in any degree alter. + </p> + <p> + “You have had these editorials set up in type to suit yourself, I + take it,” he observed after twenty minutes of perusal; “and + have pasted them into the paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “Why the double-column measure?” + </p> + <p> + “More attractive to the eye. It stands out.” + </p> + <p> + “And the heavy type for the same reason?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I want to make ’em just as easy to read as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re easy to read,” admitted the other. “Are + they all yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Mine—and others’.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal looked a bland question. Banneker answered it. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been up and down in the highways and the low-ways, Mr. + Marrineal, taking those editorials from the speech of the ordinary folk + who talk about their troubles and their pleasures.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Straight from the throbbing heart of the people. + Jones-in-the-street-car.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mrs. Jones. Don’t forget her. She’ll read ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “If she doesn’t, it won’t be because they don’t + bid for her interest. Here’s this one, ‘Better Cooking Means + Better Husbands: Try It.’ That’s the <i>argumentum ad feminam</i> + with a vengeance.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I picked that up from a fat old party who was advising a thin + young wife at a fish-stall. ‘Give’m his food <i>right</i> an’ + he’ll come home to it, ‘stid o’ workin’ the free + lunch.’” + </p> + <p> + “Here are two on the drink question. ‘Next Time Ask the + Barkeep Why <i>He</i> Doesn’t Drink,’ and, ‘Mighty + Elephants Like Rum—and Are Chained Slaves.’” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find more moralizing on booze if you look farther. It’s + one of the subjects they talk most about.” + </p> + <p> + “‘The Sardine is Dead: Therefore More Comfortable Than You, + Mr. Straphanger,’” read Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “Go up in the rush-hour L any day and you’ll hear that + editorial with trimmings.” + </p> + <p> + “And ‘Mr. Flynn Owes You a Yacht Ride’ is of the same + order, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. If it had been practicable, I’d have had some insets + with that: a picture of Flynn, a cut of his new million-dollar yacht, and + a table showing the twenty per cent dividends that the City Illuminating + Company pays by over-taxing Jones on his lighting and heating. That would + almost tell the story without comment.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Still making it easy for them to read.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal ran over a number of other captions, sensational, personal, + invocative, and always provocative: “Man, Why Hasn’t Your Wife + Divorced You?” “John L. Sullivan, the Great Unknown.” + “Why Has the Ornithorhyncus Got a Beak?” “If You Must + Sell Your Vote, Ask a Fair Price For It.” “Mustn’t Play, + You Kiddies: It’s a Crime: Ask Judge Croban.” “Socrates, + Confucius, Buddha, Christ; All Dead, But—!!!” “The + Inventor of Goose-Plucking Was the First Politician. They’re At It + Yet.” “How Much Would You Pay a Man to Think For You?” + “Air Doesn’t Cost Much: Have You Got Enough to Breathe?” + </p> + <p> + “All this,” said the owner of The Patriot, “is taken + from what people talk and think about?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t some of it reach out into the realm of what Mr. + Banneker thinks they <i>ought</i> to talk and think about?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker laughed. “Discovered! Oh, I won’t pretend but what I + propose to teach ’em thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “If you can do that and make them think our way—” + </p> + <p> + “‘Give me place for my fulcrum,’ said Archimedes.” + </p> + <p> + “But that’s an editorial you won’t write very soon. One + more detail. You’ve thrown up words and phrases into capital letters + all through for emphasis. I doubt whether that will do.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you shattered enough traditions without that? The + public doesn’t want to be taught with a pointer. I’m afraid + that’s rather too much of an innovation.” + </p> + <p> + “No innovation at all. In fact, it’s adapted plagiarism.” + </p> + <p> + “From what?” + </p> + <p> + “Harper’s Monthly of the seventy’s. I used to have some + odd volumes in my little library. There was a department of funny + anecdote; and the point of every joke, lest some obtuse reader should + overlook it, was printed in italics. That,” chuckled Banneker, + “was in the days when we used to twit the English with lacking a + sense of humor. However, the method has its advantages. It’s + fool-proof. Therefore I helped myself to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’re aiming at the weak-minded?” + </p> + <p> + “At anybody who can assimilate simple ideas plainly expressed,” + declared the other positively. “There ought to be four million of + ’em within reaching distance of The Patriot’s presses.” + </p> + <p> + “Your proposition—though you haven’t made any as yet—is + that we lead our editorial page daily with matter such as this. Am I + correct?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Make a clean sweep of the present editorials. Substitute mine. + One a day will be quite enough for their minds to work on.” + </p> + <p> + “But that won’t fill the page,” objected the proprietor. + </p> + <p> + “Cartoon. Column of light comment. Letters from readers. That will,” + returned Banneker with severe brevity. + </p> + <p> + “It might be worth trying,” mused Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “It might be worth, to a moribund paper, almost anything.” The + tone was significant. + </p> + <p> + “Then you are prepared to join our staff?” + </p> + <p> + “On suitable terms.” + </p> + <p> + “I had thought of offering you,” Marrineal paused for better + effect, “one hundred and fifty dollars a week.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker was annoyed. That was no more than he could earn, with a little + outside work, on The Ledger. He had thought of asking two hundred and + fifty. Now he said promptly: + </p> + <p> + “Those editorials are worth three hundred a week to any paper. As a + starter,” he added. + </p> + <p> + A pained and patient smile overspread Marrineal’s regular features. + “The Patriot’s leader-writer draws a hundred at present.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say.” + </p> + <p> + “The whole page costs barely three hundred.” + </p> + <p> + “It is overpaid.” + </p> + <p> + “For a comparative novice,” observed Marrineal without rancor, + “you do not lack self-confidence.” + </p> + <p> + “There are the goods,” said Banneker evenly. “It is for + you to decide whether they are worth the price asked.” + </p> + <p> + “And there’s where the trouble is,” confessed Marrineal. + “I don’t know. They might be.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker made his proposition. “You spoke of my being a novice. I + admit the weak spot. I want more experience. You can afford to try this + out for six months. In fact, you can’t afford not to. Something has + got to be done with The Patriot, and soon. It’s losing ground daily.” + </p> + <p> + “You are mistaken,” returned Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “Then the news-stands and circulation lists are mistaken, too,” + retorted the other. “Would you care to see my figures?” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal waved away the suggestion with an easy gesture which surrendered + the point. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I’m backing the new editorial idea to get + circulation.” + </p> + <p> + “With my money,” pointed out Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t save you the money. But I can spread it for you, that + three hundred dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “How, spread it?” + </p> + <p> + “Charge half to editorial page: half to the news department.” + </p> + <p> + “On account of what services to the news department?” + </p> + <p> + “General. That is where I expect to get my finishing experience. I’ve + had enough reporting. Now I’m after the special work; a little + politics, a little dramatic criticism; a touch of sports; perhaps some + book-reviewing and financial writing. And, of course, an apprenticeship in + the Washington office.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you forgotten the London correspondence?” + </p> + <p> + Whether or not this was sardonic, Banneker did not trouble to determine. + “Too far away, and not time enough,” he answered. “Later, + perhaps, I can try that.” + </p> + <p> + “And while you are doing all these things who is to carry out the + editorial idea?” + </p> + <p> + “I am.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal stared. “Both? At the same time?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “No living man could do it.” + </p> + <p> + “I can do it. I’ve proved it to myself.” + </p> + <p> + “How and where?” + </p> + <p> + “Since I last saw you. Now that I’ve got the hang of it, I can + do an editorial in the morning, another in the afternoon, a third in the + evening. Two and a half days a week will turn the trick. That leaves the + rest of the time for the other special jobs.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t live out the six months.” + </p> + <p> + “Insure my life if you like,” laughed Banneker. “Work + will never kill me.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal, sitting with inscrutable face turned half away from his + visitor, was beginning, “If I meet you on the salary,” when + Banneker broke in: + </p> + <p> + “Wait until you hear the rest. I’m asking that for six months + only. Thereafter I propose to drop the non-editorial work and with it the + salary.” + </p> + <p> + “With what substitute?” + </p> + <p> + “A salary based upon one cent a week for every unit of circulation + put on from the time the editorials begin publication.” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds innocent,” remarked Marrineal. “It isn’t + as innocent as it sounds,” he added after a penciled reckoning on + the back of an envelope. “In case we increase fifty thousand, you + will be drawing twenty-five thousand a year.” + </p> + <p> + “Well? Won’t it be worth the money?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it would,” admitted Marrineal dubiously. “Of + course fifty thousand in six months is an extreme assumption. Suppose the + circulation stands still?” + </p> + <p> + “Then I starve. It’s a gamble. But it strikes me that I’m + giving the odds.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you amuse yourself for an hour?” asked Marrineal + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes,” answered Banneker hesitantly. “Perhaps you’d + turn me loose in your library. I’d find something to put in the time + on there.” + </p> + <p> + “Not very much, I’m afraid,” replied his host + apologetically. “I’m of the low-brow species in my reading + tastes, or else rather severely practical. You’ll find some + advertising data that may interest you, however.” + </p> + <p> + From the hour—which grew to an hour and a half—spent in the + library, Banneker sought to improve his uncertain conception of his + prospective employer’s habit and trend of mind. The hope of + revelation was not borne out by the reading matter at hand. Most of it + proved to be technical. + </p> + <p> + When he returned to Marrineal’s den, he found Russell Edmonds with + the host. + </p> + <p> + “Well, son, you’ve turned the trick,” was the veteran’s + greeting. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve read ’em?” asked Banneker, and Marrineal + was shrewd enough to note the instinctive shading of manner when expert + spoke to expert. He was an outsider, being merely the owner. It amused + him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They’re dam’ good.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t they dam’ good?” returned Banneker + eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “They’ll save the day if anything can.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely my own humble opinion if a layman may speak,” put + in Marrineal. “Mr. Banneker, shall I have the contract drawn up?” + </p> + <p> + “Not on my account. I don’t need any. If I haven’t made + myself so essential after the six months that you <i>have</i> to keep me + on, I’ll want to quit.” + </p> + <p> + “Still in the gambling mood,” smiled Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + The two practical journalists left, making an appointment to spend the + following morning with Marrineal in planning policy and methods. Banneker + went back to his apartment and wrote Miss Camilla Van Arsdale all about + it, in exultant mood. + </p> + <p> + “Brains to let! But I’ve got my price. And I’ll get a + higher one: the highest, if I can hold out. It’s all due to you. If + you hadn’t kept my mind turned to things worth while in the early + days at Manzanita, with your music and books and your taste for all that + is fine, I’d have fallen into a rut. It’s success, the first + real taste. I like it. I love it. And I owe it all to you.” + </p> + <p> + Camilla Van Arsdale, yearning over the boyish outburst, smiled and sighed + and mused and was vaguely afraid, with quasi-maternal fears. She, too, had + had her taste of success; a marvelous stimulant, bubbling with inspiration + and incitement. But for all except the few who are strong and steadfast, + there lurks beneath the effervescence a subtle poison. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + Not being specially gifted with originality of either thought or + expression, Mr. Herbert Cressey stopped Banneker outside of his apartment + with the remark made and provided for the delayed reunion of frequent + companions: “Well I thought you were dead!” + </p> + <p> + By way of keeping to the same level Banneker replied cheerfully: “I’m + not.” + </p> + <p> + “Where’ve you been all this while?” + </p> + <p> + “Working.” + </p> + <p> + “Where were you Monday last? Didn’t see you at Sherry’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Working.” + </p> + <p> + “And the week before? You weren’t at The Retreat.” + </p> + <p> + “Working, also.” + </p> + <p> + “And the week before that? Nobody’s seen so much—” + </p> + <p> + “Working. Working. Working.” + </p> + <p> + “I stopped in at your roost and your new man told me you were away + and might be gone indefinitely. Funny chap, your new man. Mysterious sort + of manner. Where’d you pick him up?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord! Hainer!” exclaimed Banneker appreciatively. “Well, + he told the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “You look pulled down, too, by Jove!” commented Cressey, + concern on his sightly face. “Ridin’ for a fall, aren’t + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Only for a test. I’m going to let up next week.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes: I’ll come. I’ll be playing polo that afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if Jim Maitland sees you first. He’s awfully sore on you + for not turning up to practice. Had a place for you on the second team.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t want it. I’m through with polo.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban! What the devil—” + </p> + <p> + “Work, I tell you. Next season I may be able to play. For the + present I’m off everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Have they made you <i>all</i> the editors of The Ledger in one?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m off The Ledger, too. Give you all the painful details + Wednesday. Fare-you-well.” + </p> + <p> + General disgust and wrath pervaded the atmosphere of the polo field when + Banneker, making his final appearance on Wednesday, broke the news to + Maitland, Densmore, and the others. + </p> + <p> + “Just as you were beginning to know one end of your stick from the + other,” growled the irate team captain. + </p> + <p> + Banneker played well that afternoon because he played recklessly. Lack of + practice sometimes works out that way; as if luck took charge of a man’s + play and carried him through. Three of the five goals made by the second + team fell to his mallet, and he left the field heartily cursed on all + sides for his recalcitrancy in throwing himself away on work when the + sport of sports called him. Regretful, yet well pleased with himself, he + had his bath, his one, lone drink, and leisurely got into his evening + clothes. Cressey met him at the entry to the guest’s lounge giving + on the general dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “Damned if you’re not a good-lookin’ chap, Ban!” + he declared with something like envy in his voice. “Thinning down a + bit gives you a kind of look. No wonder Mertoun puts in his best licks on + your clothes.” + </p> + <p> + “Which reminds me that I’ve neglected even Mertoun,” + smiled Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead in, will you? I’ve got to bone some feller for a + fresh collar. My cousin’s in there somewhere. Mrs. Rogerson Lyle + from Philadelphia. She’s a pippin in pink. Go in and tell on + yourself, and order her a cocktail.” + </p> + <p> + Seeking to follow the vague direction, Banneker turned to the left and + entered a dim side room. No pippin in pink disclosed herself. But a + gracious young figure in black was bending over a table looking at a + magazine, the long, free curve of her back turned toward him. He advanced. + The woman said in a soft voice that shook him to the depths of his soul: + </p> + <p> + “Back so soon, Archie? Want Sis to fix your tie?” + </p> + <p> + She turned then and said easily: “Oh, I thought you were my + brother.... How do you do, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + Io held out her hand to him. He hardly knew whether or not he took it + until he felt the close, warm pressure of her fingers. Never before had he + so poignantly realized that innate splendor of femininity that was + uniquely hers, a quality more potent than any mere beauty. Her look met + his straight and frankly, but he heard the breath flutter at her lips, and + he thought to read in her eyes a question, a hunger, and a delight. His + voice was under rigid control as he said: + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know you were to be here, Mrs. Eyre.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew that you were,” she retorted. “And I’m not + Mrs. Eyre, please. I’m Io.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “That was in another world.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ban, Ban!” she said. Her lips seemed to cherish the name + that they gave forth so softly. “Don’t be a silly Ban. It’s + the same world, only older; a million years older, I think.... I came here + only because you were coming. Are you a million years older, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Unfair,” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “I’m never unfair. I play the game.” Her little, firm + chin went up defiantly. Yes: she was more lovely and vivid and desirable + than in the other days. Or was it only the unstifled yearning in his heart + that made her seem so? “Have you missed me?” she asked simply. + </p> + <p> + He made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve missed you.” She walked over to the window and + stood looking out into the soft and breathing murk of the night. When she + came back to him, her manner had changed. “Fancy finding you here of + all places!” she said gayly. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t such a bad place to be,” he said, relieved to + meet her on the new ground. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a goal,” she declared. “Half of the aspiring + gilded youth of the city would give their eye-teeth to make it. How did + you manage?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t manage. It was managed for me. Old Poultney Masters + put me in.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don’t scowl at me! For a reporter, you know, it’s + rather an achievement to get into The Retreat.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. Though I’m not a reporter now.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, for any newspaper man. What are you, by the way?” + </p> + <p> + “A sort of all-round experimental editor.” + </p> + <p> + “I hadn’t heard of that,” said Io, with a quickness + which apprised him that she had been seeking information about him. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody has. It’s only just happened.” + </p> + <p> + “And I’m the first to know of it? That’s as it should + be,” she asserted calmly. “You shall tell me all about it at + dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I taking you in?” + </p> + <p> + “No: you’re taking in my cousin, Esther Forbes. But I’m + on your left. Be nice to me.” + </p> + <p> + Others came in and joined them. Banneker, his inner brain a fiery whorl, + though the outer convolutions which he used for social purposes remained + quite under control, drifted about making himself agreeable and approving + himself to his host as an asset of the highest value. At dinner, sprightly + and mischievous Miss Forbes, who recalled their former meeting at Sherry’s, + found him wholly delightful and frankly told him so. He talked little with + Io; but he was conscious to his nerve-ends of the sweet warmth of her so + near him. To her questions about his developing career he returned vague + replies or generalizations. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not drinking anything,” she said, as the third + course came on. “Have you renounced the devil and all his works?” + There was an impalpable stress upon the “all.” + </p> + <p> + His answer, composed though it was in tone, quite satisfied her. “I + wouldn’t dare touch drink to-night.” + </p> + <p> + After dinner there was faro bank. Banneker did not play. Io, after a run + of indifferent luck, declared herself tired of the game and turned to him. + </p> + <p> + “Take me out somewhere where there is air to breathe.” + </p> + <p> + They stood together on the stone terrace, blown lightly upon by a + mist-ladden breeze. + </p> + <p> + “It ought to be a great drive of rain, filling the world,” + said Io in her voice of dreams. “The roar of waters above us and + below, and the glorious sense of being in the grip of a resistless + current.... We’re all in the grip of resistless currents. D’you + believe that yet, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Skeptic! You want to work out your own fate. You ‘strive to + see, to choose your path.’ Well, you’ve climbed. Is it + success. Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “It will be.” + </p> + <p> + “And have you reached the Mountains of Fulfillment?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “One never does, climbing alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Has it been alone, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Always?” + </p> + <p> + “Always.” + </p> + <p> + “So it has been for me—really. No,” she added swiftly; + “don’t ask me questions. Not now. I want to hear more of your + new venture.” + </p> + <p> + He outlined his plan and hopes for The Patriot. + </p> + <p> + “It’s good,” she said gravely. “It’s power, + and so it’s danger. But it’s good.... Are we friends, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “How can we be!” + </p> + <p> + “How can we not be! You’ve tried to drop me out of your life. + Oh, I know, because I know you—better than you think. You’ll + never drop me out of your life again,” she murmured with confident + wistfulness. “Never, Ban.... Let’s go in.” + </p> + <p> + Not until she came to bid him good-night, with a lingering handclasp, her + palm cleaving to his like the reluctant severance of lips, did she tell + him that she was going away almost immediately. “But I had to make + sure first that you were really alive, and still Ban,” she said. + </p> + <p> + It was many months before he saw her again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART III—FULFILLMENT + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + The House With Three Eyes sent forth into the darkness a triple glow of + hospitality. Through the aloof Chelsea district street, beyond the + westernmost L structure, came taxicabs, hansoms, private autos, to + discharge at the central door men who were presently revealed, under the + lucent globe above the lintel, to be for the most part silhouette studies + in the black of festal tailoring and silk hat against the white of + expansive shirt-front. Occasionally, though less often, one of the doors + at either flank of the house, also overwatched by shining orbs, opened to + discharge an early departure. A midnight wayfarer, pausing opposite to + contemplate this inexplicable grandeur in a dingy neighborhood, sought + enlightenment from the passing patrolman: + </p> + <p> + “Wot’s doin’? Swell gamblin’ joint? Huh?” As + he spoke a huge, silent car crept swiftly to the entry, which opened to + swallow up two bareheaded, luxuriously befurred women, with their escorts. + The curious wayfarer promptly amended his query, though not for the + better. + </p> + <p> + “Naw!” replied the policeman with scorn. “That’s + Mr. Banneker’s house.” + </p> + <p> + “Banneker? Who’s Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + With augmented contempt the officer requested the latest quotations on + clover seed. “He’s the editor of The Patriot,” he + vouchsafed. “A millionaire, too, they say. And a good sport.” + </p> + <p> + “Givin’ a party, huh?” + </p> + <p> + “Every Saturday night,” answered he of the uniform and + night-stick, who, having participated below-stairs in the reflections of + the entertainment, was condescending enough to be informative. “Say, + the swellest folks in New York fall over themselves to get invited here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why ain’t he on Fi’th Avenyah, then?” demanded + the other. + </p> + <p> + “He makes the Fi’th Avenyah bunch come to him,” + explained the policeman, with obvious pride. “Took a couple of these + old houses on long lease, knocked out the walls, built ’em into one, + on his own plan, and, say! It’s a pallus! I been all through it.” + </p> + <p> + A lithely powerful figure took the tall steps of the house three at a + time, and turned, under the light, to toss away a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Cheest!” exclaimed the wayfarer in tones of awe: “that’s + K.O. Doyle, the middleweight, ain’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure! That’s nothin’. If you was to get inside there + you’d bump into some of the biggest guys in town; a lot of high-ups + from Wall Street, and maybe a couple of these professors from Columbyah + College, and some swell actresses, and a bunch of high-brow writers and + painters, and a dozen dames right off the head of the Four Hundred list. + He takes ’em, all kinds, Mr. Banneker does, just so they’re <i>somethin</i>’. + He’s a wonder.” + </p> + <p> + The wayfarer passed on to his oniony boarding-house, a few steps along, + deeply marveling at the irruption of magnificence into the neighborhood in + the brief year since he had been away. + </p> + <p> + Equipages continued to draw up, unload, and withdraw, until twelve thirty, + when, without so much as a preliminary wink, the House shut its Three + Eyes. A scant five minutes earlier, an alert but tired-looking man, + wearing the slouch hat of the West above his dinner coat, had briskly + mounted the steps and, after colloquy with the cautious, black guardian of + the door, had been admitted to a side room, where he was presently + accosted by a graying, spare-set guest with ruminative eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I heard about this show by accident, and wanted in,” + explained the newcomer in response to the other’s look of inquiry. + “If I could see Banneker—” + </p> + <p> + “It will be some little time before you can see him. He’s at + work.” + </p> + <p> + “But this is his party, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The party takes care of itself until he comes down.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh; does it? Well, will it take care of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you a friend of Mr. Banneker’s?” + </p> + <p> + “In a way. In fact, I might claim to have started him on his career + of newspaper crime. I’m Gardner of the Angelica City Herald.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban will be glad to see you. Take off your things. I am Russell + Edmonds.” + </p> + <p> + He led the way into a spacious and beautiful room, filled with the + composite hum of voices and the scent of half-hidden flowers. The + Westerner glanced avidly about him, noting here a spoken name familiar in + print, there a face recognized from far-spread photographic reproduction. + </p> + <p> + “Some different from Ban’s shack on the desert,” he + muttered. “Hello! Mr. Edmonds, who’s the splendid-looking + woman in brown with the yellow orchids, over there in the seat back of the + palms?” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds leaned forward to look. “Royce Melvin, the composer, I + believe. I haven’t met her.” + </p> + <p> + “I have, then,” returned the other, as the guest changed her + position, fully revealing her face. “Tried to dig some information + out of her once. Like picking prickly pears blindfold. That’s + Camilla Van Arsdale. What a coincidence to find her here!” + </p> + <p> + “No! Camilla Van Arsdale? You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I + want to speak to her. Make yourself known to any one you like the looks + of. That’s the rule of the house; no introductions.” + </p> + <p> + He walked across the room, made his way through the crescent curving about + Miss Van Arsdale, and, presenting himself, was warmly greeted. + </p> + <p> + “Let me take you to Ban,” he said. “He’ll want to + see you at once.” + </p> + <p> + “But won’t it disturb his work?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing does. He writes with an open door and a shut brain.” + </p> + <p> + He led her up the east flight of stairs and down a long hallway to an end + room with door ajar, notwithstanding that even at that distance the hum of + voices and the muffled throbbing of the concert grand piano from below + were plainly audible. Banneker’s voice, regular, mechanical, + desensitized as the voices of those who dictate habitually are prone to + become, floated out: + </p> + <p> + “Quote where ignorance is bliss ‘tis folly to be wise end + quote comma said a poet who was also a cynic period. Many poets are comma + but not the greatest period. Because of their—turn back to the + beginning of the paragraph, please, Miss Westlake.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve brought up an old friend, Ban,” announced Edmonds, + pushing wide the door. + </p> + <p> + Vaguely smiling, for he had trained himself to be impervious to + interruptions, the editorializer turned in his chair. Instantly he sprang + to his feet, and caught Miss Van Arsdale by both hands. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Camilla!” he cried. “I thought you said you couldn’t + come.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m defying the doctors,” she replied. “They’ve + given me so good a report of myself that I can afford to. I’ll go + down now and wait for you.” + </p> + <p> + “No; don’t. Sit up here with me till I finish. I don’t + want to lose any of you,” said he affectionately. + </p> + <p> + But she laughingly refused, declaring that he would be through all the + sooner for his other guests, if she left him. + </p> + <p> + “See that she meets some people, Bop,” Banneker directed. + “Gaines of The New Era, if he’s here, and Betty Raleigh, and + that new composer, and the Junior Masters.” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds nodded, and escorted her downstairs. Nicely judging the time when + Banneker would have finished, he was back in quarter of an hour. The + stenographer had just left. + </p> + <p> + “What a superb woman, Ban!” he said. “It’s small + wonder that Enderby lost himself.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker nodded. “What would she have said if she could know that + you, an absolute stranger, had been the means of saving her from a + terrific scandal? Gives one a rather shivery feeling about the power and + responsibility of the press, doesn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “It would have been worse than murder,” declared the veteran, + with so much feeling that his friend gave him a grateful look. “What’s + she doing in New York? Is it safe?” + </p> + <p> + “Came on to see a specialist. Yes; it’s all right. The + Enderbys are abroad.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. How long since you’d seen her?” + </p> + <p> + “Before this trip? Last spring, when I took a fortnight off.” + </p> + <p> + “You went clear West, just to see her?” + </p> + <p> + “Mainly. Partly, too, to get back to the restfulness of the place + where I never had any troubles. I’ve kept the little shack I used to + own; pay a local chap named Mindle to keep it in shape. So I just put in a + week of quiet there.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a queer chap, Ban. And a loyal one.” + </p> + <p> + “If I weren’t loyal to Camilla Van Arsdale—” said + Banneker, and left the implication unconcluded. + </p> + <p> + “Another friend from your picturesque past is down below,” + said Edmonds, and named Gardner. + </p> + <p> + “Lord! That fellow nearly cost me my life, last time we met,” + laughed Banneker. Then his face altered. Pain drew its sharp lines there, + pain and the longing of old memories still unassuaged. “Just the + same, I’ll be glad to see him.” + </p> + <p> + He sought out the Californian, found him deep in talk with Guy Mallory of + The Ledger, who had come in late, gave him hearty greeting, and looked + about for Camilla Van Arsdale. She was supping in the center of a + curiously assorted group, part of whom remembered the old romance of her + life, and part of whom had identified her, by some chance, as Royce + Melvin, the composer. All of them were paying court to her charm and + intelligence. She made a place beside herself for Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve been discussing The Patriot, Ban,” she said, + “and Mr. Gaines has embalmed you, as an editorial writer, in the + amber of one of his best epigrams.” + </p> + <p> + The Great Gaines made a deprecating gesture. “My little efforts + always sound better when I’m not present,” he protested. + </p> + <p> + “To be the subject of any Gaines epigram, however stinging, is fame + in itself,” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “And no sting in this one. ‘Attic salt and American pep,’” + she quoted. “Isn’t it truly spicy?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker bowed with half-mocking appreciation. “I fancy, though, + that Mr. Gaines prefers his journalistic egg more <i>au naturel</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes,” admitted the most famous of magazine editors, + “I could dispense with some of the pep.” + </p> + <p> + “I like the pep, too, Ban.” Betty Raleigh, looking up from a + seat where she sat talking to a squat and sensual-looking man, a dweller + in the high places and cool serenities of advanced mathematics whom + jocular-minded Nature had misdowered with the face of a satyr, interposed + the suave candor of her voice. “I actually lick my lips over your + editorials even where I least agree with them. But the rest of the paper—Oh, + dear! It screeches.” + </p> + <p> + “Modern life is such a din that one has to screech to be heard above + it,” said Banneker pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it the newspapers which make most of the din, though?” + suggested the mathematician. + </p> + <p> + “Shouting against each other,” said Gaines. + </p> + <p> + “Like Coney Island barkers for rival shows,” put in Junior + Masters. + </p> + <p> + “Just for variety how would it do to try the other tack and practice + a careful but significant restraint?” inquired Betty. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t sell a ticket,” declared Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Still, if we all keep on yelling in the biggest type and hottest + words we can find,” pointed out Edmonds, “the effect will + pall.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps the measure of success is in finding something constantly + more strident and startling than the other fellow’s war whoop,” + surmised Masters. + </p> + <p> + “I have never particularly admired the steam calliope as a form of + expression,” observed Miss Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said the actress, smiling, “but Royce Melvin doesn’t + make music for circuses.” + </p> + <p> + “And a modern newspaper is a circus,” pronounced the + satyr-like scholar. + </p> + <p> + “Three-ring variety; all the latest stunts; list to the voice of the + ballyhoo,” said Masters. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Panem et circenses</i>” pursued the mathematician, pleased + with his simile, “to appease the howling rabble. But it is mostly + circus, and very little bread that our emperors of the news give us.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ve got to feed what the animal eats,” defended + Banneker lightly. + </p> + <p> + “After having stimulated an artificial appetite,” said + Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + As the talk flowed on, Betty Raleigh adroitly drew Banneker out of the + current of it. “Your Patriot needn’t have screeched at me, + Ban,” she murmured in an injured tone. + </p> + <p> + “Did it, Betty? How, when, and where?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were horridly patronizing about the new piece, and + quite unkind to me, for a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t my criticism, you know,” he reminded her + patiently. “I don’t write the whole paper, though most of my + acquaintances seem to think that I do. Any and all of it to which they + take exception, at least.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, I know you didn’t write it, or it wouldn’t + have been so stupid. I could stand anything except the charge that I’ve + lost my naturalness and become conventional.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re like the man who could resist anything except + temptation, my dear: you can stand anything except criticism,” + returned Banneker with a smile so friendly that there was no sting in the + words. “You’ve never had enough of that. You’re the + spoiled pet of the critics.” + </p> + <p> + “Not of this new one of yours. He’s worse than Gurney. Who is + he and where does he come from?” + </p> + <p> + “An inconsiderable hamlet known as Chicago. Name, Allan Haslett. + Dramatic criticism out there is still so unsophisticated as to be + intelligent as well as honest—at its best.” + </p> + <p> + “Which it isn’t here,” commented the special pet of the + theatrical reviewers. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I thought a good new man would be better than the good old + ones. Less hampered by personal considerations. So I sent and got this + one.” + </p> + <p> + “But he isn’t good. He’s a horrid beast. We’ve + been specially nice to him, on your account mostly—Ban, if you grin + that way I shall hate you! I had Bezdek invite him to one of the rehearsal + suppers and he wouldn’t come. Sent word that theatrical suppers + affected his eyesight when he came to see the play.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker chuckled. “Just why I got him. He doesn’t let the + personal element prejudice him.” + </p> + <p> + “He is prejudiced. And most unfair. Ban,” said Betty in her + most seductive tones, “do call him down. Make him write something + decent about us. Bez is fearfully upset.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker sighed. “The curse of this business,” he reflected + aloud, “is that every one regards The Patriot as my personal toy for + me or my friends to play with.” + </p> + <p> + “This isn’t play at all. It’s very much earnest. Do be + nice about it, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “Betty, do you remember a dinner party in the first days of our + acquaintance, at which I told you that you represented one essential + difference from all the other women there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I thought you were terribly presuming.” + </p> + <p> + “I told you that you were probably the only woman present who wasn’t + purchasable.” + </p> + <p> + “Not understanding you as well as I do now, I was quite shocked. + Besides, it was so unfair. Nearly all of them were most respectable + married people.” + </p> + <p> + “Bought by their most respectable husbands. Some of ’em bought + away from other husbands. But I gave you credit for not being on that + market—or any other. And now you’re trying to corrupt my + professional virtue.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban! I’m not.” + </p> + <p> + “What else is it when you try to use your influence to have me fire + our nice, new critic?” + </p> + <p> + “If that’s being corruptible, I wonder if any of us are + incorruptible.” She stretched upward an idle hand and fondled a + spray of freesia that drooped against her cheek. “Ban; there’s + something I’ve been waiting to tell you. Tertius Marrineal wants to + marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve suspected as much. That would settle the obnoxious + critic, wouldn’t it! Though it’s rather a roundabout way.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban! You’re beastly.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I apologize,” he replied quickly. “But—have + I got to revise my estimate of you, Betty? I should hate to.” + </p> + <p> + “Your estimate? Oh, as to purchasability. That’s worse than + what you’ve just said. Yet, somehow, I don’t resent it. + Because it’s honest, I suppose,” she said pensively. “No: + it wouldn’t be a—a market deal. I like Tertius. I like him a + lot. I won’t pretend that I’m madly in love with him. But—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I know,” he said gently, as she paused, looking at him + steadily, but with clouded eyes. He read into that “but” a + world of opportunities; a theater of her own—the backing of a + powerful newspaper—wealth—and all, if she so willed it, + without interruption to her professional career. + </p> + <p> + “Would you think any the less of me?” she asked wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “Would you think any the less of yourself?” he countered. + </p> + <p> + The blossoming spray broke under her hand. “Ah, yes; that’s + the question after all, isn’t it?” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + Meantime, Gardner, the eternal journalist, fostering a plan of his own, + was gathering material from Guy Mallory who had come in late. + </p> + <p> + “What gets me,” he said, looking over at the host, “is + how he can do a day’s work with all this social powwow going on.” + </p> + <p> + “A day’s? He does three days’ work in every one. He’s + the hardest trained mind in the business. Why, he could sit down here this + minute, in the middle of this room, and dictate an editorial while keeping + up his end in the general talk. I’ve seen him do it.” + </p> + <p> + “He must be a wonder at concentration.” + </p> + <p> + “Concentration? If he didn’t invent it, he perfected it. Tell + you a story. Ban doesn’t go in for any game except polo. One day + some of the fellows at The Retreat got talking golf to him—” + </p> + <p> + “The Retreat? Good Lord! He doesn’t belong to The Retreat, + does he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; been a member for years. Well, they got him to agree to try + it. Jim Tamson, the pro—he’s supposed to be the best + instructor in America—was there then. Banneker went out to the first + tee, a 215-yard hole, watched Jim perform his show-em-how swing, asked a + couple of questions. ‘Eye on the ball,’ says Jim. ‘That’s + nine tenths of it. The rest is hitting it easy and following through. + Simple and easy,’ says Jim, winking to himself. Banneker tries two + or three clubs to see which feels easiest to handle, picks out a + driving-iron, and slams the ball almost to the edge of the green. Chance? + Of course, there was some luck in it. But it was mostly his everlasting + ability to keep his attention focused. Jim almost collapsed. ‘First + time I ever saw a beginner that didn’t top,’ says he. ‘You’ll + make a golfer, Mr. Banneker.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Not me,’ says Ban. ‘This game is too easy. It + doesn’t interest me.’ He hands Jim a twenty-dollar bill, + thanks him, goes in and has his bath, and has never touched a golf-stick + since.” + </p> + <p> + Gardner had been listening with a kindling eye. He brought his fist down + on his knee. “You’ve told me something!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Going to try it out on your own game?” + </p> + <p> + “Not about golf. About Banneker. I’ve been wondering how he + managed to establish himself as an individual figure in this big town. Now + I begin to see it. It’s publicity; that’s what it is. He’s + got the sense of how to make himself talked about. He’s picturesque. + I’ll bet Banneker’s first and last golf shot is a legend in + the clubs yet, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly is,” confirmed Mallory. “But do you really + think that he reasoned it all out on the spur of the moment?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, reasoned; probably not. It’s instinctive, I tell you. And + the twenty to the professional was a touch of genius. Tamson will never + stop talking about it. Can’t you hear him, telling it to his fellow + pros? ‘Golf’s too easy for me,’ he says, ‘and hands me a + double sawbuck! Did ye ever hear the like!’ And so the legend is + built up. It’s a great thing to become a local legend. I know, for I’ve + built up a few of ’em myself.... I suppose the gun-play on the + river-front gave him his start at it and the rest came easy.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask him. He’ll probably tell you,” said Mallory. + “At least, he’ll be interested in your theory.” + </p> + <p> + Gardner strolled over to Banneker’s group, not for the purpose of + adopting Mallory’s suggestion, for he was well satisfied with his + own diagnosis, but to congratulate him upon the rising strength of The + Patriot. As he approached, Miss Van Arsdale, in response to a plea from + Betty Raleigh, went to the piano, and the dwindled crowd settled down into + silence. For music, at The House With Three Eyes, was invariably the sort + of music that people listen to; that is, the kind of people whom Banneker + gathered around him. + </p> + <p> + After she had played, Miss Van Arsdale declared that she must go, + whereupon Banneker insisted upon taking her to her hotel. To her protests + against dragging him away from his own party, he retorted that the party + could very well run itself without him; his parties often did, when he was + specially pressed in his work. Accepting this, his friend elected to walk; + she wanted to hear more about The Patriot. What did she think of it, he + asked. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t expect you to like it,” he added. + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t matter. I do tremendously admire your + editorials. They’re beautifully done; the perfection of clarity. But + the rest of the paper—I can’t see you in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I’m not there, as an individual.” + </p> + <p> + He expounded to her his theory of journalism. That was a just + characterization of Junior Masters, he said: the three-ringed circus. He, + Banneker, would run any kind of a circus they wanted, to catch and hold + their eyes; the sensational acts, the clowns of the funny pages, the blare + of the bands, the motion, the color, and the spangles; all to beguile them + into reading and eventually to thinking. + </p> + <p> + “But we haven’t worked it out yet, as we should. What I’m + really aiming at is a saturated solution, as the chemists say: Not a + saturated solution of circulation, for that isn’t possible, but a + saturated solution of influence. If we can’t put The Patriot into + every man’s house, we ought to be able to put it into every man’s + mind. All things to all men: that’s the formula. We’re far + from it yet, but we’re on the road. And in the editorials, I’m + making people stir their minds about real things who never before + developed a thought beyond the everyday, mechanical processes of living.” + </p> + <p> + “To what end?” she asked doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Does it matter? Isn’t the thinking, in itself, end enough?” + </p> + <p> + “Brutish thinking if it’s represented in your screaming + headlines.” + </p> + <p> + “Predigested news. I want to preserve all their brain-power for my + editorial page. And, oh, how easy I make it for them! Thoughts of one + syllable.” + </p> + <p> + “And you use your power over their minds to incite them to + discontent.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “But that’s dreadful, Ban! To stir up bitterness and rancor + among people.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you be misled by cant, Miss Camilla,” adjured + Banneker. “The contented who have everything to make them content + have put a stigma on discontent. They’d have us think it a crime. It + isn’t. It’s a virtue.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban! A virtue?” + </p> + <p> + “Well; isn’t it? Call it by the other name, ambition. What + then?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale pondered with troubled eyes. “I see what you mean,” + she confessed. “But the discontent that arises within one’s + self is one thing; the ‘divine discontent.’ It’s quite + another to foment it for your own purposes in the souls of others.” + </p> + <p> + “That depends upon the purpose. If the purpose is to help the + others, through making their discontent effective to something better, isn’t + it justified?” + </p> + <p> + “But isn’t there always the danger of making a profession of + discontent?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a shrewd hit,” confessed Banneker. “I’ve + suspected that Marrineal means to capitalize it eventually, though I don’t + know just how. He’s a secret sort of animal, Marrineal.” + </p> + <p> + “But he gives you a free hand?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “He has to,” said Banneker simply. + </p> + <p> + Camilla Van Arsdale sighed. “It’s success, Ban. Isn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It’s success. In its kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it happiness?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Also in its kind.” + </p> + <p> + “The real kind? The best kind?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s satisfaction. I’m doing what I want to do.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed. “I’d hoped for something more.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “One can’t have everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” she demanded almost fiercely. “You ought to + have. You’re made for it.” After a pause she added: “Then + it isn’t Betty Raleigh. I’d hoped it was. I’ve been + watching her. There’s character there, Ban, as well as charm.” + </p> + <p> + “She has other interests. No; it isn’t Betty.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban, there are times when I could hate her,” broke out Miss + Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “Who? Betty?” + </p> + <p> + “You know whom well enough.” + </p> + <p> + “I stand corrected in grammar as well as fact,” he said + lightly. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I see her occasionally. Not often.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she come here?” + </p> + <p> + “She has been.” + </p> + <p> + “And her husband?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban, aren’t you ever going to get over it?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her silently. + </p> + <p> + “No; you won’t. There are a few of us like that. God help us!” + said Camilla Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + Others than Banneker’s friends and frequenters now evinced symptoms + of interest in his influence upon his environment. Approve him you might, + or disapprove him; the palpable fact remained that he wielded a growing + power. Several promising enterprises directed at the City Treasury had + aborted under destructive pressure from his pen. A once impregnably + cohesive ring of Albany legislators had disintegrated with such violence + of mutual recrimination that prosecution loomed imminent, because of a two + weeks’ “vacation” of Banneker’s at the State + Capitol. He had hunted some of the lawlessness out of the Police + Department and bludgeoned some decent housing measures through the city + councils. Politically he was deemed faithless and unreliable which meant + that, as an independent, he had ruined some hopefully profitable + combinations in both parties. Certain men, high up in politics and finance + at the point where they overlap, took thoughtful heed of him. How could + they make him useful? Or, at least, prevent him from being harmful? + </p> + <p> + No less a potentate than Poultney Masters had sought illumination from + Willis Enderby upon the subject in the days when people in street-cars + first began to rustle through the sheets of The Patriot, curious to see + what the editorial had to say to them that day. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of him?” began the magnate. + </p> + <p> + “Able,” grunted the other. + </p> + <p> + “If he weren’t, I wouldn’t be troubling my head about + him. What else? Dangerous?” + </p> + <p> + “As dangerous as he is upright. Exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, I wonder what the devil you mean by that, Enderby,” said + the financier testily. “Dangerous as long as he’s upright? Eh? + And dangerous to what?” + </p> + <p> + “To anything he goes after. He’s got a following. I might + almost say a blind following.” + </p> + <p> + “Got a boss, too, hasn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “Marrineal? Ah, I don’t know how far Marrineal interferes. And + I don’t know Marrineal.” + </p> + <p> + “Upright, too; that one?” The sneer in Masters’s heavy + voice was palpable. + </p> + <p> + “You consider that no newspaper can be upright,” the lawyer + interpreted. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve bought ’em and bluffed ’em and stood ’em + in a corner to be good,” returned the other simply. “What + would you expect my opinion to be?” + </p> + <p> + “The Sphere, among them?” queried the lawyer. + </p> + <p> + “Damn The Sphere!” exploded the other. “A dirty, + muck-grubbing, lying, crooked rag.” + </p> + <p> + “Your actual grudge against it is not for those latter qualities, + though,” pointed out Enderby. “On questions where it conflicts + with your enterprises, it’s straight enough. That’s it’s + defect. Upright equals dangerous. You perceive?” + </p> + <p> + Masters shrugged the problem away with a thick and ponderous jerk of his + shoulders. “What’s young Banneker after?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to know him as well as I. He’s a sort of protégé of + yours, isn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “At The Retreat, you mean? I put him in because he looked to be polo + stuff. Now the young squirt won’t practice enough to be certain team + material.” + </p> + <p> + “Found a bigger game.” + </p> + <p> + “Umph! But what’s in back of it?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the game for the game’s sake with him, I suspect. + I can only tell you that, wherever I’ve had contact with him, he has + been perfectly straightforward.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe. But what about this anarchistic stuff of his?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, anarchistic! You mean his attacks on Wall Street? The Stock + Exchange isn’t synonymous with the Constitution of the United + States, you know, Masters. Do moderate your language.” + </p> + <p> + “Now you’re laughing at me, damn you, Enderby.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s good for you. You ought to laugh at yourself more. Ask + Banneker what he’s at. Very probably he’ll laugh at you + inside. But he’ll answer you.” + </p> + <p> + “That reminds me. He had an editorial last week that stuck to me. + ‘It is the bitter laughter of the people that shakes thrones. Have a care, + you money kings, not to become too ridiculous!’ Isn’t that + socialist-anarchist stuff?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very young stuff. But it’s got a quality, hasn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hell, yes; quality!” rumbled the profane old man. “Well, + I will tackle your young prodigy one of these days.” + </p> + <p> + Which, accordingly, he did, encountering, some days later, Banneker in the + reading-room at The Retreat. + </p> + <p> + “What are you up to; making trouble with that editorial screed of + yours?” he growled at the younger man. + </p> + <p> + Banneker smiled. He accepted that growl from Poultney Masters, not because + Masters was a great and formidable figure in the big world, but because + beneath the snarl there was a quality of—no, not of friendliness, + but of man-to-man approach. + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m trying to cure trouble, not make it.” + </p> + <p> + “Umph! Queer idea of curing. Here we are in the midst of good times, + everywhere, and you talk about—what was the stuff?—oh, yes: + ‘The grinning mask of prosperity, beneath which Want searches with + haggard and threatening eyes for the crust denied.’ Fine stuff!” + </p> + <p> + “Not mine. I don’t write as beautifully as all that. It’s + quoted from a letter. But I’ll take the responsibility, since I + quoted it. There’s some truth in it, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a hair’s-weight. If you fill the minds of the ignorant + with that sort of thing, where shall we end?” + </p> + <p> + “If you fill the minds of the ignorant, they will no longer be + ignorant.” + </p> + <p> + “Then they’ll be above their class and their work. Our whole + trouble is in that; people thinking they’re too good for the sort of + work they’re fitted for.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t they too good if they can think themselves into + something better?” + </p> + <p> + Poultney Masters delivered himself of a historical profundity. “The + man who first had the notion of teaching the mass of people to read will + have something to answer for.” + </p> + <p> + “Destructive, isn’t it?” said Banneker, looking up + quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Now, you want to go farther. You want to teach ’em to think.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Why, because, you young idiot, they’ll think wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely. At first. We all had to spell wrong before we spelled + right. What if people do think wrong? It’s the thinking that’s + important. Eventually they’ll think right.” + </p> + <p> + “With the newspapers to guide them?” There was a world of + scorn in the magnate’s voice. + </p> + <p> + “Some will guide wrong. Some will guide right. The most I hope to do + is to teach ’em a little to use their minds. Education and a fair + field. To find out and to make clear what is found; that’s the + business of a newspaper as I see it.” + </p> + <p> + “Tittle-tattle. Tale-mongering,” was Masters’s + contemptuous qualification. + </p> + <p> + “A royal mission,” laughed Banneker. “I call the Sage to + witness. ‘But the glory of kings is to search out a matter.’” + </p> + <p> + “But they’ve got to be kings,” retorted the other + quickly. “It’s a tricky business, Banneker. Better go in for + polo. We need you.” He lumbered away, morose and growling, but + turned back to call over his shoulder: “Read your own stuff when you + get up to-morrow and see if polo isn’t a better game and a cleaner.” + </p> + <p> + What the Great of the city might think of his journalistic achievement + troubled Banneker but little, so long as they thought of it at all, + thereby proving its influence; the general public was his sole arbiter, + except for the opinions of the very few whose approval he really desired, + Io Eyre, Camilla Van Arsdale, and more remotely the men for whose own + standards he maintained a real respect, such as Willis Enderby and Gaines. + Determined to make Miss Van Arsdale see his point of view, as well as to + assure himself of hers, he had extracted from her a promise that she would + visit The Patriot office before she returned to the West. Accordingly, on + a set morning she arrived on her trip of inspection, tall, serene, and, in + her aloof <i>genre</i>, beautiful, an alien figure in the midst of that + fevered and delirious energy. He took her through the plant, elucidating + the mechanical processes of the daily miracle of publication, more + far-reaching than was ever any other voice of man, more ephemeral than the + day of the briefest butterfly. Throughout, the visitor’s pensive + eyes kept turning from the creature to the creator, until, back in the + trim quietude of his office, famed as the only orderly working-room of + journalism, she delivered her wondering question: + </p> + <p> + “And <i>you</i> have made all this, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “At least I’ve remade it.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “No; as I told you before, I can’t see you + in it.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean, it doesn’t express me. It isn’t meant to.’ + </p> + <p> + “Whom does it express, then? Mr. Marrineal?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It isn’t an expression at all in that sense. It’s a—a + response. A response to the demand of hundreds of thousands of people who + have never had a newspaper made for them before.” + </p> + <p> + “An echo of <i>vox populi</i>? Does that excuse its sins?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not putting it forth as an excuse. Is it really sins or + only bad taste that offends you?” + </p> + <p> + “Clever, Ban. And true in a measure. But insincerity is more than + bad taste. It’s one of the primal sins.” + </p> + <p> + “You find The Patriot insincere?” + </p> + <p> + “Can I find it anything else, knowing you?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, there you go wrong again, Miss Camilla. As an expression of my + ideals, the news part of the paper would be insincere. I don’t like + it much better than you do. But I endure it; yes, I’ll be frank and + admit that I even encourage it, because it gives me wider scope for the + things I want to say. Sincere things. I’ve never yet written in my + editorial column anything that I don’t believe from the bottom of my + soul. Take that as a basis on which to judge me.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Ban! I don’t want to judge you.” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to,” he cried eagerly. “I want your judgment + and your criticism. But you must see what I’m aiming for. Miss + Camilla, I’m making people stir their minds and think who never + before had a thought beyond the everyday processes of life.” + </p> + <p> + “For your own purposes? Thought, as you manipulate it, might be a + high-explosive. Have you thought of using it in that way?” + </p> + <p> + “If I found a part of the social edifice that had to be blown to + pieces, I might.” + </p> + <p> + “Take care that you don’t involve us all in the crash. + Meantime, what is the rest of your editorial page; a species of sedative + to lull their minds? Who is Evadne Ellington?” + </p> + <p> + “One of our most prominent young murderesses.” + </p> + <p> + “And you let her sign a column on your page?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she’s a highly moral murderess. Killed her lover in + defense of her honor, you know. Which means that she shot him when he got + tired of her. A sobbing jury promptly acquitted her, and now she’s + writing ‘Warnings to Young Girls.’ They’re most + improving and affecting, I assure you. We look after that.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban! I hate to have you so cynical.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” he protested. “Ask the Prevention of Vice + people and the criminologists. They’ll tell you that Evadne’s + column is a real influence for good among the people who read and believe + it.” + </p> + <p> + “What class is Reformed Rennigan’s sermon aimed at?” she + inquired, with wrinkling nostrils. “‘Soaking it to Satan’; + is that another regular feature?” + </p> + <p> + “Twice a week. It gives us a Y.M.C.A. circulation that is worth a + good deal to us. Outside of my double column, the page is a sort of forum. + I’ll take anything that is interesting or authoritative. For + example, if Royce Melvin had something of value to say to the public about + music, where else could she find so wide a hearing as through The Patriot?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I thank you,” returned his visitor dryly. + </p> + <p> + “No? Are you sure? What is your opinion of ‘The Star-Spangled + Banner’ as a national song?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s dreadful.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “For every reason. The music misfits the words. It’s beyond + the range of most voices. The harmonies are thin. No crowd in the world + can sing it. What is the value or inspiration of a national song that the + people can’t sing?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask it of The Patriot’s public. I’ll follow it up + editorially; ‘Wanted; A Song for America.’” + </p> + <p> + “I will,” she answered impulsively. Then she laughed. “Is + that the way you get your contributors?” + </p> + <p> + “Often, as the spider said to the fly,” grinned Banneker the + shameless. “Take a thousand words or more and let us have your + picture.” + </p> + <p> + “No. Not that. I’ve seen my friends’ pictures too often + in your society columns. By the way, how comes it that a paper devoted to + the interests of the common people maintains that aristocratic feature?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the common people eat it alive. Russell Edmonds is largely + responsible for keeping it up. You should hear his theory. It’s + ingenious. I’ll send for him.” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds, who chanced to be at his desk, entered the editorial den with his + tiny pipe between his teeth, and, much disconcerted at finding a lady + there, hastily removed it until Miss Van Arsdale suggested its + restitution. + </p> + <p> + “What? The society page?” said he. “Yes; I was against + dropping it. You see, Miss Van Arsdale, I’m a Socialist in belief.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there a pun concealed in that or are you serious, Mr. Edmonds?” + </p> + <p> + “Serious. I’m always that on the subjects of Socialism and The + Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you must explain if I’m to understand.” + </p> + <p> + “By whom is society news read? By two classes,” expounded the + veteran; “those whose names appear, and those who are envious of + those whose names appear. Well, we’re after the envious.” + </p> + <p> + “Still I don’t see. With what purpose?’ + </p> + <p> + “Jim Simpson, who has just got his grocery bill for more than he can + pay, reads a high-colored account of Mrs. Stumpley-Triggs’s aquatic + dinner served in the hundred-thousand-dollar swimming-pool on her + Westchester estate. That makes Jim think.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that it makes him discontented.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, discontent is a mighty leaven.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Van Arsdale directed her fine and serious eyes upon Banneker. “So + it comes back to the cult of discontent. Is that Mr. Marrineal’s + formula, too, Mr. Edmonds?” + </p> + <p> + “Underneath all his appearance of candor, Marrineal’s a secret + animal,” said Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Does he leave you a free hand with your editorials, Ban?” + inquired the outsider. + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely.” + </p> + <p> + “Watches the circulation only,” said Edmonds. “Thus far,” + he added. + </p> + <p> + “You’re looking for an ulterior motive, then,” + interpreted Miss Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “I’m looking for whatever I can find in Marrineal, Miss Van + Arsdale,” confessed the patriarch of the office. “As yet I + haven’t found much.” + </p> + <p> + “I have,” said Banneker. “I’ve discovered his + theory of journalism. We three, Edmonds, Marrineal, and I, regard this + business from three diverse viewpoints. To Edmonds it’s a vocation + and a rostrum. He wants really, under his guise as the most far-seeing + news man of his time, to call sinners against society to repentance, or to + force repentance down their throats. There’s a good deal of the + stern evangelist about you, you know, Pop.” + </p> + <p> + “And you?” The other’s smile seemed enmeshed in the + dainty spiral of smoke brooding above his pursed lips. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m more the pedagogue. With me, too, the game is a + vocation. But it’s a different one. I’d like to marshal men’s + minds as a generalissimo marshals armies.” + </p> + <p> + “In the bonds of your own discipline?” asked Miss Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “If I could chain a mind I’d be the most splendid tyrant of + history. No. Free leadership of the free is good enough.” + </p> + <p> + “If Marrineal will leave you free,” commented the veteran. + “What’s your diagnosis of Marrineal, then?” + </p> + <p> + “A priest of Baal.” + </p> + <p> + “With The Patriot in the part of Baal?” + </p> + <p> + “Not precisely The Patriot. Publicity, rather, of which The Patriot + is merely the instrument. Marrineal’s theory of publicity is + interesting. It may even be true. Substantially it is this: All civilized + Americans fear and love print; that is to say, Publicity, for which read + Baal. They fear it for what it may do to them. They love and fawn on it + for what it may do for them. It confers the boon of glory and launches the + bolts of shame. Its favorites, made and anointed from day to day, are the + blessed of their time. Those doomed by it are the outcasts. It sits in + momentary judgment, and appeal from its decisions is too late to avail + anything to its victims. A species of auto-juggernaut, with Marrineal at + the wheel.” + </p> + <p> + “What rubbish!” said Miss Van Arsdale with amused scorn. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, because you’ve nothing to ask or fear from Baal. Yet even + you would use it, for your musical preachment.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, he became aware of Edmonds staring moodily and with pinched + lips at Miss Van Arsdale. To the mind’s eye of the old stager had + flashed a sudden and astounding vision of all that pride of womanhood and + purity underlying the beauty of the face, overlaid and fouled by the inky + vomit of Baal of the printing-press, as would have come to pass had not + he, Edmonds, obstructed the vengeance. + </p> + <p> + “I can imagine nothing printed,” said the woman who had loved + Willis Enderby, “that could in any manner influence my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Fortunate you!” Edmonds wreathed his little congratulation in + festoons of light vapor. “But you live in a world of your own + making. Marrineal is reckoning on the world which lives and thinks largely + in terms of what its neighbor thinks of it.” + </p> + <p> + “He once said to me,” remarked Banneker, “that the + desire to get into or keep out of print could be made the master-key to + new and undreamed-of powers of journalism if one had the ability to find a + formula for it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure that I understand what he means,” said + Miss Van Arsdale, “but it has a sinister sound.” + </p> + <p> + “Are Baal’s other names Bribery and Blackmail?” glowered + Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “There has never been a hint of any illegitimate use of the paper, + so far as I can discover. Yet it’s pretty plain to me that he + intends to use it as an instrument.” + </p> + <p> + “As soon as we’ve made it strong enough,” supplied + Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “An instrument of what?” inquired Miss Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “Power for himself. Political, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he want office?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. Perhaps he prefers the deeper-lying power to make and + unmake politicians. We’ve done it already in a few cases. That’s + Edmonds’s specialty. I’ll know within a few days what + Marrineal wants, if I can get a showdown. He and I are coming to a new + basis of finance.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he thinks he can’t afford to keep on paying you by + circulation. You’re putting on too much.” This from Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what he got me here for. However, I don’t really + believe he can. I’m eating up what should be the paper’s + legitimate profits. And yet”—he smiled radiantly—“there + are times when I don’t see how I’m going to get along with + what I have. It’s pretty absurd, isn’t it, to feel pinched on + fifty thousand a year, when I did so well at Manzanita on sixty a month?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a fairy-tale,” declared Miss Van Arsdale. “I + knew that you were going to arrive sooner or later, Ban. But this isn’t + an arrival. It’s a triumph.” + </p> + <p> + “Say rather it’s a feat of balancing,” he propounded. + “A tight-rope stunt on a gilded rope. Failure on one side; debt on + the other. Keep going like the devil to save yourself from falling.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it making of him, Mr. Edmonds?” Banneker’s + oldest friend turned her limpid and anxious regard upon his closest + friend. + </p> + <p> + “A power. Oh, it’s real enough, all this empire of words that + crumbles daily. It leaves something behind, a little residue of thought, + ideals, convictions. What do you fear for him?” + </p> + <p> + “Cynicism,” she breathed uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the curse of the game. But it doesn’t get the + worker who feels his work striking home.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you see any trace of cynicism in the paper?” asked + Banneker curiously. + </p> + <p> + “All this blaring and glaring and froth and distortion,” she + replied, sweeping her hand across the issue which lay on the desk before + her. “Can you do that sort of thing and not become that sort of + thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask Edmonds,” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Thirty years I’ve been in this business,” said the + veteran slowly. “I suppose there are few of its problems and + perplexities that I haven’t been up against. And I tell you, Miss + Van Arsdale, all this froth and noise and sensationalism doesn’t + matter. It’s an offense to taste, I know. But back of it is the big + thing that we’re trying to do; to enlist the ignorant and helpless + and teach them to be less ignorant and helpless. If fostering the + political ambitions of a Marrineal is part of the price, why, I’m + willing to pay it, so long as the paper keeps straight and doesn’t + sell itself for bribe money. After all, Marrineal can ride to his goal + only on our chariot. The Patriot is an institution now. You can’t + alter an institution, not essentially. You get committed to it, to the + thing you’ve made yourself. Ban and I have made the new Patriot, not + Marrineal. Even if he got rid of us, he couldn’t change the paper; + not for a long time and only very gradually. The following that we’ve + built up would be too strong for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it too strong for you two?” asked the doubting + woman-soul. + </p> + <p> + “No. We understand it because we made it.” + </p> + <p> + “Frankenstein once said something like that,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t a monster,” rumbled Edmonds. “Sometimes + I think it’s a toy dog, with Ban’s ribbon around its cute + little neck. I’ll answer for Ban, Miss Van Arsdale.” + </p> + <p> + The smoke of his minute pipe went up, tenuous and graceful, incense + devoted to the unseen God behind the strangely patterned curtain of print; + to Baal who was perhaps even then grinning down upon his unsuspecting + worshipers. + </p> + <p> + But Banneker, moving purposefully amidst that vast phantasmagoria of + pulsing print, wherein all was magnified, distorted, perverted to the + claims of a gross and rabid public appetite, dreamed his pure, untainted + dream; the conception of his newspaper as a voice potent enough to reach + and move all; dominant enough to impose its underlying ideal; confident + enough of righteousness to be free of all silencing and control. That + voice should supply the long unsatisfied hunger of the many for truth + uncorrupted. It should enunciate straightly, simply, without reservation, + the daily verities destined to build up the eternal structure. It should + be a religion of seven days a week, set forth by a thousand devoted + preachers for a million faithful hearers. + </p> + <p> + Camilla Van Arsdale had partly read his dream, and could have wept for it + and him. + </p> + <p> + Io Eyre had begun to read it, and her heart went out to him anew. For this + was the test of success. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + It was one of those mornings of coolness after cloying heat when even the + crowded, reeking, frowzy metropolis wakes with a breath of freshness in + its nostrils. Independent of sleep as ever, Banneker was up and footing it + briskly for the station before eight o’clock, for Camilla Van + Arsdale was returning to Manzanita, having been ordered back to her + seclusion with medical science’s well-considered verdict wrapped up + in tactful words to bear her company on the long journey. When she would + be ordered on a longer journey by a mightier Authority, medical science + forbore to specify; but in the higher interests of American music it was + urgently pressed upon her that she be abstemious in diet, niggardly of + work, careful about fatigue and excitement, and in general comport herself + in such manner as to deprive the lease of life remaining to her of most of + its savor and worth. She had told Ban that the physicians thought her + condition favorable. + </p> + <p> + Invalidism was certainly not suggested in her erect bearing and serene + face as she moved about her stateroom setting in order the books, + magazines, flowers, and candy, with which Banneker had sought to fortify + her against the tedium of the trip. As the time for departure drew near, + they fell into and effortfully maintained that meaningless, banal, and + jerky talk which is the inevitable concomitant of long partings between + people who, really caring for each other, can find nothing but + commonplaces wherewith to ease their stress of mind. Miss Van Arsdale’s + common sense came to the rescue. + </p> + <p> + “Go away, my dear,” she said, with her understanding smile. + “Don’t think that you’re obliged to cling to the + dragging minutes. It’s an ungraceful posture.... Ban! What makes you + look like that?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought—I heard—” + </p> + <p> + A clear voice outside said, “Then it must be this one.” There + was a decisive tap on the door. “May I come in?”..."Come in,” + responded Miss Van Arsdale. “Bring them here, porter,” + directed the voice outside, and Io entered followed by an attendant almost + hidden in a huge armful of such roses as are unpurchasable even in the + most luxurious of stores. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve looted our conservatory,” said she. “Papa + will slay me. They’ll last to Chicago.” + </p> + <p> + After an almost imperceptible hesitation she kissed the older woman. She + gave her hand to Banneker. “I knew I should find you here.” + </p> + <p> + “Any other woman of my acquaintance would have said, ‘Who + would have expected to find you here!’” commented Miss Van + Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “Yes? I suppose so. But we’ve never been on that footing, Ban + and I.” Io’s tone was casual; almost careless. + </p> + <p> + “I thought that you were in the country,” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “So we are. I drove up this morning to bid Miss Van Arsdale <i>bon + voyage</i>, and all the luck in the world. I suppose we three shall meet + again one of these days.” + </p> + <p> + “You prophesy in the most matter-of-fact tone a gross improbability,” + observed Miss Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, our first meeting was the gross improbability,” retorted + the girl lightly. “After that anything might be logical. <i>Au + revoir</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Go with her, Ban,” said Miss Camilla. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t leaving time yet,” he protested. “There’s + five whole minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; come with me, Ban,” said Io tranquilly. + </p> + <p> + Camilla Van Arsdale kissed his cheek, gave him a little, half-motherly + pat, said, “Keep on making me proud of you,” in her even, + confident tones, and pushed him out of the door. + </p> + <p> + Ban and Io walked down the long platform in a thoughtful silence which + disconcerted neither of them. Io led the way out of it. + </p> + <p> + “At half-past four,” she stated, “I had a glass of milk + and one cracker.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you want to breakfast?” + </p> + <p> + “Thanking you humbly, sir, for your kind invitation, the nearer the + better. Why not here?” + </p> + <p> + They found a table in the well-appointed railroad restaurant and ordered. + Over her honey-dew melon Io asked musingly: + </p> + <p> + “What do you suppose she thinks of us?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Camilla? What should she think?” + </p> + <p> + “What, indeed? What do we think, ourselves?” + </p> + <p> + “Has it any importance?” he asked gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “And that’s rather rude,” she chided. “Anything + that I think should, by courtesy, be regarded as important.... Ban, how + often have we seen each other?” + </p> + <p> + “Since I came to New York, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Nine times.” + </p> + <p> + “So many? And how much have we talked together? All told; in time, I + mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly a solid hour. Not more.” + </p> + <p> + “It hasn’t made any difference, has it? There’s been no + interruption. We’ve never let the thread drop. We’ve never + lost touch. Not really.” + </p> + <p> + “No. We’ve never lost touch.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t repeat it as if it were a matter for mourning and + repentance. I think it rather wonderful.... Take our return from the + train, all the way down without a word. Were you sulking, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “No. You know I wasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I know it. It was simply that we didn’t need to + talk. There’s no one else in the world like that.... How long is it? + Three years—four—more than four years. + </p> + <p> + ‘We twain once well in sunder What will the mad gods do For hate with me, + I wond—‘” + </p> + <p> + “My God, Io! Don’t!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ban; I’m sorry! Have I hurt you? I was dreaming back into + the old world.” + </p> + <p> + “And I’ve been trying all these years not to.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the reality really better? No; don’t answer that! I don’t + want you to. Answer me something else. About Betty Raleigh.” + </p> + <p> + “What about her?” + </p> + <p> + “If I were a man I should find her an irresistible sort of person. + Entirely aside from her art. Are you going to marry her, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me why not.” + </p> + <p> + “For one reason because she doesn’t want to marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you asked her? It’s none of my business. But I don’t + believe you have. Tell me this; would you have asked her, if it hadn’t + been for—if Number Three had never been wrecked in the cut? You see + the old railroad terms you taught me still cling. Would you?” + </p> + <p> + “How do I know? If the world hadn’t changed under my feet, and + the sky over my head—” + </p> + <p> + “Is it so changed? Do the big things, the real things, ever + change?... Don’t answer that, either. Ban, if I’ll go out of + your life now, and stay out, <i>honestly</i>, will you marry Betty Raleigh + and—and live happy ever after?” + </p> + <p> + “Would you want me to?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Truly. And I’d hate you both forever.” + </p> + <p> + “Betty Raleigh is going to marry some one else.” + </p> + <p> + “No! I thought—people said—Are you sorry, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for myself. I think he’s the wrong man for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; that would be a change of the earth underfoot and the sky + overhead, if one cared,” she mused. “And I said they didn’t + change.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t they!” retorted Banneker bitterly. “You are + married.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been married,” she corrected, with an air of amiable + rectification. “It was a wise thing to do. Everybody said so. It + didn’t last. Nobody thought it would. I didn’t really think so + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why in Heaven’s name—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, let’s not talk about it now. Some other time, perhaps. + Say next time we meet; five or six months from now.... No; I won’t + tease you any more, Ban. It won’t be that. It won’t be long. I’ll + tell you the truth: I’d heard a lot about you and Betty Raleigh, and + I got to know her and I hoped it would be a go. I did; truly, Ban. I owed + you that chance of happiness. I took mine, you see; only it wasn’t + happiness that I gambled for. Something else. Safety. The stakes are + usually different for men and women. So now you know.... Well, if you don’t, + you’ve grown stupid. And I don’t want to talk about it any + more. I want to talk about—about The Patriot. I read it this morning + while I was waiting; your editorial. Ban”—she drew a derisive + mouth—“I was shocked.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it? Politics?” asked Banneker, who, turning out his + editorials several at a time, seldom bothered to recall on what particular + day any one was published. “You wouldn’t be expected to like + our politics.” + </p> + <p> + “Not politics. It is about Harvey Wheelwright.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker was amused. “The immortally popular Wheelwright. We’re + serializing his new novel, ‘Satiated with Sin,’ in the Sunday + edition. My idea. It’ll put on circulation where we most need it.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that any reason why you should exploit him as if he were the + foremost living novelist?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Besides, he is, in popularity.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Ban; his stuff is awful! If this latest thing is like the + earlier. [“Worse,” murmured Banneker.] And you’re + writing about him as if he were—well, Conrad and Wells rolled into + one.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s better than that, for the kind of people that read him. + It’s addressed to them, that editorial. All the stress is on his + piety, his popularity, his power to move men’s minds; there isn’t + a word that even touches on the domain of art or literary skill.” + </p> + <p> + “It has that effect.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! That’s my art,” chuckled Banneker. “<i>That’s</i> + literary skill, if you choose!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what I call it? I call it treason.” + </p> + <p> + His mind flashed to meet hers. She read comprehension in his changed face + and the shadow in her eyes, lambent and profound, deepened. + </p> + <p> + “Treason to the world that we two made for ourselves out there,” + she pursued evenly. + </p> + <p> + “You shattered it.” + </p> + <p> + “To the Undying Voices.” + </p> + <p> + “You stilled them, for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ban! Not that!” A sudden, little sob wrenched at her + throat. She half thrust out a hand toward him, and withdrew it, to cup and + hold her chin in the old, thoughtful posture that plucked at his heart + with imperious memories. “Don’t they sing for you any more?” + begged Io, wistful as a child forlorn for a dream of fairies dispelled. + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t let them. They all sang of you.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed, but about the tender corners of her lips crept the tremor of a + smile. Instantly she became serious again. + </p> + <p> + “If you still heard the Voices, you could never have written that + editorial.... What I hate about it is that it has charm; that it imparts + charm to a—to a debasing thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come, Io!” protested the victim of this criticism, more + easily. “Debasing? Why, Wheelwright is considered the most uplifting + of all our literary morality-improvers.” + </p> + <p> + Io amplified and concluded her critique briefly and viciously. “A + slug!” + </p> + <p> + “No; seriously. I’m not sure that he doesn’t inculcate a + lot of good in his way. At least he’s always on the side of the + angels.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of angels? Tinsel seraphs with paint on their cheeks, + playing rag-time harps out of tune! There’s a sickly slaver of + sentiment over everything he touches that would make any virtue nauseous.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you want a job as a literary critic Our Special + Reviewer, Miss Io Wel—Mrs. Delavan Eyre,” he concluded, in a + tone from which the raillery had flattened out. + </p> + <p> + At that bald betrayal, Io’s color waned slightly. She lifted her + water-glass and sipped at it. When she spoke again it was as if an inner + scene had been shifted. + </p> + <p> + “What did you come to New York for?” + </p> + <p> + “Success.” + </p> + <p> + “As in all the fables. And you’ve found it. It was almost too + easy, wasn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, not. It was touch and go.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you have come but for me?” + </p> + <p> + He stared at her, considering, wondering. + </p> + <p> + “Remember,” she adjured him; “success was my + prescription. Be flattering for once. Let me think that I’m + responsible for the miracle.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. I couldn’t stay out there—afterward. The + loneliness....” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t want to leave you loneliness,” she burst out + passionately under her breath. “I wanted to leave you memory and + ambition and the determination to succeed.” + </p> + <p> + “For what?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; no!” She answered the harsh thought subtending his + query. “Not for myself. Not for any pride. I’m not cheap, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “No; you’re not cheap.” + </p> + <p> + “I would have kept my distance.... It was quite true what I said to + you about Betty Raleigh. It was not success alone that I wanted for you; I + wanted happiness, too. I owed you that—after my mistake.” + </p> + <p> + He caught up the last word. “You’ve admitted to yourself, + then, that it was a mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “I played the game,” she retorted. “One can’t + always play right. But one can always play fair.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I know your creed of sportsmanship. There are worse religions.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I played fair with you, Ban? After that night on the + river?” + </p> + <p> + He was mute. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know why I didn’t kiss you good-bye in the station? + Not really kiss you, I mean, as I did on the island?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Because, if I had, I should never have had the strength to go away.” + She lifted her eyes to his. Her voice fell to a half whisper. “You + understood, on the island?... What I meant?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But you didn’t take me. I wonder. Ban, if it hadn’t + been for the light flashing in our eyes and giving us hope...?” + </p> + <p> + “How can I tell? I was dazed with the amazement and the glory of it—of + you. But—yes. My God, yes! And then? Afterward?” + </p> + <p> + “Could there have been any afterward?” she questioned + dreamily. “Would we not just have waited for the river to sweep us + up and carry us away? What other ending could there have been, so fitting?” + </p> + <p> + “Anyway,” he said with a sudden savage jealousy, “whatever + happened you would not have gone away to marry Eyre.” + </p> + <p> + “Should I not? I’m by no means sure. You don’t + understand much of me, my poor Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “How could you!” he burst out. “Would that have been—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I should have told him, of course. I’d have said, ‘Del, + there’s been another man, a lover.’ One could say those things + to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Would he have married you?” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t, would you?” she smiled. “All or + nothing, Ban, for you. About Del, I don’t know.” She shrugged + dainty shoulders. “I shouldn’t have much cared.” + </p> + <p> + “And would you have come back to me, Io?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to say ‘Yes’? You do want me to say’ + Yes,’ don’t you, my dear? How can I tell?... Sooner or later, + I suppose. Fate. The irresistible current. I am here now.” + </p> + <p> + “Io.” He leaned to her across the little table, his somber + regard holding hers. “Why did you tell Camilla Van Arsdale that you + would never divorce Eyre?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it’s true.” + </p> + <p> + “But why tell her? So that it should come back to me?” + </p> + <p> + She answered him straight and fearlessly. “Yes. I thought it would + be easier for you to hear from her.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” He sat staring past her at visions. It was not + within Banneker’s code, his sense of fair play in the game, to + betray to Io his wonderment (shared by most of her own set) that she + should have endured the affront of Del Eyre’s openly flagitious + life, even though she had herself implied some knowledge of it in her + assumption that a divorce could be procured. However, Io met his reticence + with characteristic candor. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I know about Del. We have a perfect understanding. He’s + agreed to maintain the outward decencies, from now on. I don’t + consider that I’ve the right to ask more. You see, I shouldn’t + have married him ... even though he understood that I wasn’t really + in love with him. We’re friends; and we’re going to remain + friends. Just that. Del’s a good sort,” she added with a hint + of pleading the cause of a misunderstood person. “He’d give me + my divorce in a minute; even though he still cares—in his way. But + there’s his mother. She’s a sort of latter-day saint; one of + those rare people that you respect and love in equal parts; the only other + one I know is Cousin Willis Enderby. She’s an invalid, hopeless, and + a Roman Catholic, and for me to divorce Del would poison the rest of her + life. So I won’t. I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “She won’t live forever,” muttered Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “No. Not long, perhaps.” There was pain and resolution in Io’s + eyes as they were lifted to meet his again. “There’s another + reason. I can’t tell even you, Ban. The secret isn’t mine.... + I’m sorry.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you any work to do to-day?” she asked after a + pause, with a successful effect of lightness. + </p> + <p> + He roused himself, settled the check, and took her to her car, parked near + by. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you go now?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Back to the country.” + </p> + <p> + “When shall I see you again?” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” said Io. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + Panem et Circenses; bread and the Big Show. The diagnosis of the + satyr-like mathematician had been accurate. That same method whereby the + tyrants of Rome had sought to beguile the restless and unthinking + multitude, Banneker adopted to capture and lead the sensation-avid + metropolitan public through his newspaper. As a facture, a creation made + to the mind of the creator, The Patriot was Banneker’s own. True, + Marrineal reserved full control. But Marrineal, after a few months spent + in anxious observation of his editor’s headlong and revolutionary + method, had taken the sales reports for his determinative guide and + decided to give the new man full sway. + </p> + <p> + Circulation had gone up as water rises in a tube under irresistible + pressure from beneath. Nothing like it had ever been known in local + journalism. Barring some set-back, within four years of the time when + Banneker’s introductory editorial appeared, the paper would have + eclipsed all former records. In less than two years it had climbed to + third place, and already Banneker’s salary, under the percentage + agreement, was, in the words of the alliterative Gardner, whose article + describing The House With Three Eyes and its owner had gone forth on the + wings of a far-spreading syndicate, “a stupendous stipend.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker’s editorials pervaded and gave the keynote. With sublime + self-confidence he had adopted the untried scheme of having no set and + determined place for the editorial department. Sometimes, his page + appeared in the middle of the paper; sometimes on the back; and once, when + a most promising scheme of municipal looting was just about to be put + through, he fired his blast from the front sheet in extra heavy, + double-leaded type, displacing an international yacht race and a most + titillating society scandal with no more explanation than was to be found + in the opening sentence: + </p> + <p> + “This is more important to YOU, Mr. New Yorker, than any other news + in to-day’s issue.” + </p> + <p> + “Where Banneker sits,” Russell Edmonds was wont to remark + between puffs, “is the head of the paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Let ’em look for the stuff,” said Banneker confidently. + “They’ll think all the more of it when they find it.” + </p> + <p> + Often he used inset illustrations, not so much to give point to his + preachments, as to render them easier of comprehension to the unthinking. + And always he sought the utmost of sensationalism in caption and in type, + employing italics, capitals, and even heavy-face letters with an effect of + detonation. + </p> + <p> + “Jollies you along until he can see the white of your mind, and then + fires his slug into your head, point-blank,” Edmonds said. + </p> + <p> + With all this he had the high art to keep his style direct, unaffected, + almost severe. No frills, no literary graces, no flashes of wit except an + occasional restrained touch of sarcasm: the writing was in the purest + style and of a classic simplicity. The typical reader of The Patriot had a + friendly and rather patronizing feeling for the editorials: they were + generally deemed quite ordinary, “common as an old shoe” (with + an approving accent from the commentator), comfortably devoid of the + intricate elegancies practiced by Banneker’s editorial compeers. So + they were read and absorbed, which was all that their writer hoped or + wished for them. He was not seeking the bubble, reputation, but the solid + satisfaction of implanting ideas in minds hitherto unaroused to mental + processes, and training the resultant thought in his chosen way and to + eventual though still vague purposes. + </p> + <p> + “They’re beginning to imitate you, Ban,” commented + Russell Edmonds in the days of The Patriot’s first surprising upward + leap. “Flattery of your peers.” + </p> + <p> + “Let ’em imitate,” returned Banneker indifferently. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; they don’t come very near to the original. It’s a + fundamental difference in style.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a fundamental difference in aim.” + </p> + <p> + “Aim?” + </p> + <p> + “They’re writing at and for their owners; to make good with + the boss. I’m writing at my public.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you’re right. It’s more difficult, though, + isn’t it, to write for a hundred thousand people than at one?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if you understand them from study at first hand, as I do. That’s + why the other fellows are five or ten-thousand-dollar men,” said + Banneker, quite without boastfulness “while I’m—” + </p> + <p> + “A fifty-thousand-dollar a year man,” supplied Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Well, getting toward that figure. I’m on the target with the + editorials and I’m going to hold on it. But our news policy is + different. We still wobble there.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want! Look at the circulation. Isn’t that good + enough?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Every time I get into a street-car and see a passenger reading + some other paper, I feel that we’ve missed fire,” returned + Banneker inexorably. “Pop, did you ever see an actress make up?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve a general notion of the process.” + </p> + <p> + “Find me a man who can make up news ready and rouged to go before + the daily footlights as an actress makes up her face.” + </p> + <p> + The veteran grunted. “Not to be found on Park Row.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably not. Park Row is too deadly conventional.” + </p> + <p> + One might suppose that the environment of religious journalism would be + equally conventional. Yet it was from this department that the “find” + eventually came, conducted by Edmonds. Edgar Severance, ten years older + than Banneker, impressed the guiding spirit of The Patriot at first sight + with a sense of inner certitude and serenity not in the least impaired by + his shabbiness which had the redeeming merit of being clean. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not a newspaper man?” said Banneker after the + introduction. “What are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a prostitute,” answered the other equably. + </p> + <p> + Banneker smiled. “Where have you practiced your profession?” + </p> + <p> + “As assistant editor of Guidance. I write the blasphemous editorials + which are so highly regarded by the sweetly simple souls that make up our + <i>clientèle</i>; the ones which weekly give gratuitous advice to God.” + </p> + <p> + “Did Mr. Edmonds find you there?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” put in the veteran; “I traced him down through + some popular scientific stuff in the Boston Sunday Star.” + </p> + <p> + “Fake, all of it,” proffered Severance. “Otherwise it + wouldn’t be popular.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that your creed of journalism?” asked Banneker curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Largely.” + </p> + <p> + “Why come to The Patriot, then? It isn’t ours.” + </p> + <p> + Severance raised his fine eyebrows, but contented himself with saying: + “Isn’t it? However, I didn’t come. I was brought.” + He indicated Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “He gave me more ideas on news-dressing,” said the veteran, + “than I’d pick up in a century on the Row.” + </p> + <p> + “Ideas are what we’re after. Where do you get yours, Mr. + Severance, since you are not a practical newspaper man?” + </p> + <p> + “From talking with people, and seeing what the newspapers fail to + do.” + </p> + <p> + “Where were you before you went on Guidance?” + </p> + <p> + “Instructor at Harvard.” + </p> + <p> + “And you practiced your—er—specified profession there, + too?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I was partly respectable then. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you leave?” + </p> + <p> + “Drink.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah? You don’t build up much of a character for yourself as + prospective employee.” + </p> + <p> + “If I join The Patriot staff I shall probably disappear once a month + or so on a spree.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you join The Patriot staff? That is what you fail to + make clear to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Reference, Mr. Russell Edmonds,” returned the other + negligently. + </p> + <p> + “You two aren’t getting anywhere with all this chatter,” + growled the reference. “Come, Severance; talk turkey, as you did to + me.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to talk,” objected the other in his + gentle, scholarly accents. “I want to look about: to diagnose the + trouble in the news department.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you suspect the trouble to be?” asked Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the universal difficulty. Lack of brains.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker laughed, but without relish. “We pay enough for what we’ve + got. It ought to be good quality.” + </p> + <p> + “You pay not wisely but too well. My own princely emolument as a + prop of piety is thirty-five dollars a week.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you come here at that figure?” + </p> + <p> + “I should prefer forty. For a period of six weeks, on trial.” + </p> + <p> + “As Mr. Edmonds seems to think it worth the gamble, I’ll take + you on. From to-day, if you wish. Go out and look around.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute,” interposed Edmonds. “What’s his + title? How is his job to be defined?” + </p> + <p> + “Call him my representative in the news department. I’ll pay + his salary myself. If he makes good, I’ll more than get it back.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Severance’s first concern appeared to be to make himself + popular. In the anomalous position which he occupied as representative + between two mutually jealous departments, this was no easy matter. But his + quiet, contained courtesy, his tentative, almost timid, way of offering + suggestions or throwing out hints which subsequently proved to have + definite and often surprising value, his retiring willingness to waive any + credit in favor of whosoever might choose to claim it, soon gave him an + assured if inconspicuous position. His advice was widely sought. As an + immediate corollary a new impress made itself felt in the daily columns. + With his quick sensitiveness Banneker apprehended the change. It seemed to + him that the paper was becoming feminized in a curious manner. + </p> + <p> + “Is it a play for the women?” he asked Severance in the early + days of the development. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re certainly specializing on femaleness.” + </p> + <p> + “For the men. Not the women. It’s an old lure.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker frowned. “And not a pretty one.” + </p> + <p> + “Effective, though. I bagged it from the Police Gazette. Have you + ever had occasion to note the almost unvarying cover appeal of that justly + popular weekly?” + </p> + <p> + “Half-dressed women,” said Banneker, whose early researches + had extended even to those levels. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. With all they connote. Thereby attracting the crude and + roving male eye. Of course, we must do the trick more artistically and + less obviously. But the pictured effect is the thing. I’m satisfied + of that. By the way, I am having a little difficulty with your art + department. Your man doesn’t adapt himself to new ideas.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve thought him rather old-fashioned. What do you want to + do?” + </p> + <p> + “Bring in a young chap named Capron whom I’ve run upon. He + used to be an itinerant photographer, and afterward had a try at the + movies, but he’s essentially a news man. Let him read the papers for + pictures.” + </p> + <p> + Capron came on the staff as an insignificant member with an insignificant + salary. Personally a man of blameless domesticity, he was intellectually + and professionally a sex-monger. He conceived the business of a news art + department to be to furnish pictured Susannahs for the delectation of the + elders of the reading public. His <i>flair</i> for femininity he + transferred to The Patriot’s pages, according to a simple and direct + formula; the greater the display of woman, the surer the appeal and + therefore the sale. Legs and bosoms he specialized for in illustrations. + Bathing-suits and boudoir scenes were his particular aim, although any + picture with a scandal attachment in the accompanying news would serve, + the latter, however, to be handled in such manner as invariably to point a + moral. Herein his team work with Severance was applied in high perfection. + </p> + <p> + “Should Our Girls Become Artists’ Models” was one of + their early and inspired collaborations, a series begun with a line of + “beauty pictures” and spun out by interviews with well or less + known painters and illustrators, giving rich opportunity for displays of + nudity, the moral being pointed by equally lavish interviews with + sociologists and prominent Mothers in Israel. Although at least + ninety-nine per cent of all professional posing is such as would not be + out of place at a church sociable, the casual reader of the + Capron-Severance presentation would have supposed that a lace veil was the + extent of the protection allowed to a female model between sheer nakedness + and the outer artistic world. Following this came a department devoted + (ostensibly) to physical culture for women. It was conducted by the + proprietress of a fashionable reducing gymnasium, who was allowed, as this + was a comparatively unimportant feature, to supply the text subject to + Severance’s touching-up ingenuity; but the models were devised and + posed by Capron. They were extremely shapely and increasingly expressive + in posture and arrangement until they attained a point where the + post-office authorities evinced symptoms of rising excitement—though + not the type of excitement at which the Art Expert was aiming—when + the series took a turn for the milder, and more purely athletic, and, by + the same token, less appetizing; and presently faded away in a burst of + semi-editorial self-laudation over The Patriot’s altruistic + endeavors to improve the physical status of the “future mothers of + the nation.” + </p> + <p> + Failing any other excuse for their careful lubricities, the team could + always conjure up an enticing special feature from an imaginary foreign + correspondent, aimed direct at the family circle and warning against the + “Moral Pitfalls of Paris,” or the “Vampires of High Life + in Vienna.” The invariable rule was that all sex-stuff must have a + moral and virtuous slant. Thus was afforded to the appreciative reader a + double satisfaction, physical and ethical, pruriency and piety. + </p> + <p> + It was Capron who devised the simple but effective legend which afterward + became, in a thousand variants, a stock part of every news item + interesting enough to merit graphic treatment, “The X Marks the Spot + Where the Body Was Found.” He, too, adapted, from a design in a + drug-store window picturing a sponge fisherman in action, the + cross-section illustration for news. Within a few weeks he had displaced + the outdated art editor and was in receipt of a larger salary than the + city editor, who dealt primarily in news, not sensations, <i>panem</i> not + <i>circenses</i>. + </p> + <p> + Sensationalism of other kinds was spurred to keep pace with the sex + appeal. The news columns became constantly more lurid. They shrieked, + yelled, blared, shrilled, and boomed the scandals and horrors of the + moment in multivocal, multigraphic clamor, tainting the peaceful air + breathed by everyday people going about their everyday business, with + incredible blatancies which would be forgotten on the morrow in the + excitement of fresh percussions, though the cumulative effect upon the + public mind and appetite might be ineradicable. “Murderer Dabbles + Name in Bloody Print.” “Wronged Wife Mars Rival’s + Beauty.” “Society Woman Gives Hundred-Dollar-Plate Dinner.” + “Scientist Claims Life Flickers in Mummy.” “Cocktails, + Wine, Drug, Ruin for Lovely Girl of Sixteen.” “Financier + Resigns After Sprightly Scene at Long Beach.” Severance developed a + literary genius for excitant and provocative word-combinations in the + headings; “Love-Slave,” “Girl-Slasher,” “Passion-Victim,” + “Death-Hand,” “Vengeance-Oath,” “Lust-Fiend.” + The articles chosen for special display were such as lent themselves, + first, to his formula for illustration, and next to captions which + thrilled with the sensations of crime, mystery, envy of the rich and + conspicuous, or lechery, half concealed or unconcealed. For facts as such + he cared nothing. His conception of news was as a peg upon which to hang a + sensation. “Love and luxury for the women: money and power for the + men,” was his broad working scheme for the special interest of the + paper, with, of course, crime and the allure of the flesh for general + interest. A jungle man, perusing one day’s issue (supposing him to + have been competent to assimilate it), would have judged the civilization + pictured therein too grisly for his unaccustomed nerves and fled in horror + back to the direct, natural, and uncomplicated raids and homicides of the + decent wilds. + </p> + <p> + The Great Gaines, descending for once from the habitual classicism of his + phraseology, described The Patriot of Severance’s production in two + terse and sufficient words. + </p> + <p> + “It itches.” + </p> + <p> + That itch irked Banneker almost unendurably at times. He longed to be + relieved of it; to scratch the irritant Severance clean off the skin of + The Patriot. But Severance was too evidently valuable. Banneker did go so + far as to protest. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you rather overdoing this thing, Severance?” + </p> + <p> + “Which thing? We’re overdoing everything; hence the growth of + the paper.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker fell back upon banality. “Well, we’ve got to draw the + line somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + Severance bestowed upon the other his well-bred and delicate smile. + “Exactly my principle. I’m for drawing the line every issue + and on every page, if there’s room for it. ‘<i>Nulla dies sine + linea</i>.’ The line of appeal to the sensations, whether it’s + a pretty face or a caption that jumps out and grabs you by the eye. I want + to make ’em gloat.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. You were in earnest more or less when in our first talk, you + defined your profession.” + </p> + <p> + Severance waved a graceful hand. “Prostitution is the profession of + all successful journalism which looks at itself honestly. Why not play the + pander frankly?—among ourselves, of course. Perhaps I’m + offending you, Mr. Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re interesting me. But, ‘among ourselves’ you + say. You’re not a newspaper man; you haven’t the traditions.” + </p> + <p> + “Therefore I haven’t the blind spots. I’m not fooled by + the sentimentalism of the profession or the sniveling claims of being an + apostle of public enlightenment. If enlightenment pays, all very well. But + it’s circulation, not illumination, that’s the prime + desideratum. Frankly, I’d feed the public gut with all it can and + will stand.” + </p> + <p> + “Even to the extent of keeping the Tallman divorce scandal on the + front page for a week consecutively. You won’t pretend that, as + news, it’s worth it.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me a definition of news,” retorted the expert. “The + Tallman story won’t alter the history of the world. But it has its—well, + its specialized value for our purposes.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” said Banneker, deliberately stimulating his own + growing nausea, “that it makes the public’s mind itch.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a pretty filthy and scabby sort of animal, the public, + Mr. Banneker. We’re not trying to reform its morals in our news + columns, I take it.” + </p> + <p> + “No. No; we’re not. Still—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the province of your editorials,” went on the + apostle of titillation smoothly. “You may in time even educate them + up to a standard of decency where they won’t demand the sort of + thing we’re giving them now. But our present business with the news + columns is to catch them for you to educate.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so! You lure them into the dive where I wait to preach them a + sermon.” + </p> + <p> + After that conversation Banneker definitely decided that Severance’s + activities must be curbed. But when he set about it, he suffered an + unpleasant surprise. Marrineal, thoroughly apprised of the new man’s + activities (as he was, by some occult means of his own, of everything + going on in the office), stood fast by the successful method, and let + Banneker know, tactfully but unmistakably, that Severance, who had been + transferred to the regular payroll at a highly satisfactory figure, was to + have a free hand. So the ex-religious editor continued to stroll leisurely + through his unauthoritative and influential routine, contributing his + commentary upon the news as it flowed in. He would saunter over to the + make-up man’s clotted desk, run his eye over the dummy of the morrow’s + issue, and inquire; + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t there a shooting scrape over a woman in a big + West-Side apartment?... Being kept by the chap that was shot, wasn’t + she?... Oh, a bank clerk?... Well, that’s a pretty dull-looking + seventh page. Why not lift this text of the new Suburban Railways Bill and + spread the shooting across three columns? Get Sanderson to work out a + diagram and do one of his filmy line drawings of the girl lying on the + couch. And let’s be sure to get the word ‘Banker’ into + the top head.” + </p> + <p> + Or he would deliver a practical lecture from a text picked out of what to + a less keen-scented news-hound might have appeared an unpromising subject. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t we round out that disappearance story a little; the + suburban woman who hasn’t been seen since she went to New York three + days ago? Get Capron to fake up a picture of the home with the three + children in it grouped around Bereaved Husband, and—here, how would + something like this do for caption: ‘“Mamma, Mamma! Come Back!” + Sob Tiny Tots.’ The human touch. Nothing like a bit of slush to + catch the women. And we’ve been going a little shy on sentiment + lately.” + </p> + <p> + The “human touch,” though it became an office joke, also took + its place as an unwritten law. Severance’s calm and impersonal + cynicism was transmuted into a genuine enthusiasm among the copy-readers. + Headlining took on a new interest, whetted by the establishment of a + weekly prize for the most attractive caption. Maximum of sensationalism + was the invariable test. + </p> + <p> + Despite his growing distaste for the Severance cult, Banneker was honest + enough to admit that the original stimulus dated from the day when he + himself had injected his personality and ideas into the various + departments of the daily. He had established the new policy; Severance had + done no more than inform it with the heated imaginings and provocative + pictorial quality inherent in a mind intensely if scornfully apprehensive + of the unsatiated potential depravities of public taste. It was Banneker’s + hand that had set the strings vibrating to a new tune; Severance had only + raised the pitch, to the <i>n</i>th degree of sensationalism. And, in so + far as the editorial page gave him a lead, the disciple was faithful to + the principles and policies of his chief. The practice of the news columns + was always informed by a patently defensible principle. It paeaned the + virtues of the poor and lowly; it howled for the blood of the wicked and + the oppressor; it was strident for morality, the sanctity of the home, + chastity, thrift, sobriety, the People, religion, American supremacy. As a + corollary of these pious standards it invariably took sides against wealth + and power, sentimentalized every woman who found her way into the public + prints, whether she had perpetrated a murder or endowed a hospital, + simpered and slavered over any “heart-interest story” of + childhood (“blue-eyed tot stuff” was the technical office + term), and licked reprehensive but gustful lips over divorce, adultery, + and the sexual complications. It peeped through keyholes of print at the + sanctified doings of Society and snarled while it groveled. All the + shibboleths of a journalism which respected neither itself, its purpose, + nor its readers echoed from every page. And this was the reflex of the + work and thought of Errol Banneker, who intimately respected himself, and + his profession as expressed in himself. There is much of the paradoxical + in journalism—as, indeed, in the life which it distortedly mirrors. + </p> + <p> + Every other newspaper in town caught the contagion; became by insensible + degrees more sensational and pornographic. The Patriot had started a + rag-time pace (based on the same fundamental instinct which the rhythm of + rag-time expresses, if the psychologists are correct) and the rest must, + perforce, adopt it. Such as lagged in this Harlot’s Progress + suffered a loss of circulation, journalism’s most condign penalty. + For there are certain appetites which, once stimulated, must be appeased. + Otherwise business wanes! + </p> + <p> + Out of conscious nothing, as represented by the now moribund News, there + was provoked one evening a large, round, middle-aged, smiling, + bespectacled apparition who named himself as Rudy Sheffer and invited + himself to a job. Marrineal had sent him to Severance, and Severance, ever + tactful, had brought him to Banneker. Russell Edmonds being called in, the + three sat in judgment upon the Big Idea which Mr. Sheffer had brought with + him and which was: + </p> + <p> + “Give ’em a laugh.” + </p> + <p> + “The potentialities of humor as a circulation agency,” opined + Severance in his smoothest academic voice, “have never been properly + exploited.” + </p> + <p> + “A laugh on every page where there ain’t a thrill,” + pursued Sheffer confidently. + </p> + <p> + “You find some of our pages dull?” asked Banneker, always + interested in any new view. + </p> + <p> + “Well, your market page ain’t no scream. You gotta admit it.” + </p> + <p> + “People don’t usually want to laugh when they’re + studying the stock market,” growled Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Surprise ’em, then. Give ’em a jab in the ribs and see + how they like it. Pictures. Real comics. Anywhere in the paper that there’s + room for ‘em.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s always a cartoon on the editorial page,” + pointed out Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Cartoon? What does that get you? A cartoon’s an editorial, + ain’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Russell Edmonds shot a side glance at Banneker, meaning: “This is no + fool. Watch him.” + </p> + <p> + “Makes ’em think, don’t it?” pursued the visitor. + “If it tickles ’em, that’s on the side. It gets after + their minds, makes ’em work for what they get. That’s an + effort. See?” + </p> + <p> + “All right. What’s your aim?” + </p> + <p> + “Not their brains. I leave that to Mr. Banneker’s editorials. + I’m after the laugh that starts down here.” He laid hand upon + his rotund waistcoat. “The belly-laugh.” + </p> + <p> + “The anatomy of anti-melancholy,” murmured Severance. “Valuable.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re right, it’s valuable,” declared its + proponent. “It’s money; that’s what it is. Watch ’em + at the movies. When their bellies begin to shake, the picture’s got + ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “How would you produce this desirable effect?” asked + Severance. + </p> + <p> + “No trouble to show goods. I’m dealing with gents, I know. + This is all under your shirt for the present, if you don’t take up + the scheme.” + </p> + <p> + From a portfolio which he had set in a corner he produced a sheaf of + drawings. They depicted the adventures, mischievous, predatory, or + criminal, of a pair of young hopefuls whose physiognomies and postures + were genuinely ludicrous. + </p> + <p> + “Did you draw these?” asked Banneker in surprise, for the + draughtsmanship was expert. + </p> + <p> + “No. Hired a kid artist to do ’em. I furnished the idea.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you furnished the idea, did you?” queried Edmonds. + “And where did you get it?” + </p> + <p> + With an ineffably satisfied air, Mr. Sheffer tapped his bullet head. + </p> + <p> + “You must be older than you look, then. Those figures of the kids + are redrawn from a last-century German humorous classic, ‘Max und + Moritz.’ I used to be crazy over it when I was a youngster. My + grandfather brought it to me from Europe, and made a translation for us + youngsters.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure! Those pictures’d make a reformer laugh. I picked up the + book in German on an Ann Street sidewalk stand, caught the Big Idea right + then and there; to Americanize the stuff and—” + </p> + <p> + “For ‘Americanize,’ read ‘steal,’” + commented Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “There ain’t no thin’ crooked in this,” protested + the other with sincerity. “The stuff ain’t copyrighted here. I + looked that up particularly.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite true, I believe,” confirmed Severance. “It’s + an open field.” + </p> + <p> + “I got ten series mapped out to start. Call ’em ‘The + Trouble-hunter Twins, Ruff and Reddy.’ If they catch on, the artist + and me can keep ’em goin’ forever. And they’ll catch.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe they will,” said Severance. + </p> + <p> + “Smeared across the top of a page it’ll make a business man + laugh as hard as a kid. I know business men. I was one, myself. Sold bar + fixtures on the road for four years. And my best selling method was the + laughs I got out of ’em. Used to take a bit of chalk and do sketches + on the table-tops. So I know what makes ’em laugh. Belly-laughs. You + make a business man laugh that way, and you get his business. It ain’t + circulation alone; it’s advertising that the stuff will bring in. + Eh?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think, Mr. Banneker?” asked Severance. + </p> + <p> + “It’s worth trying,” decided Banneker after thought. + “You don’t think so, do you, Pop?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, go ahead!” returned Edmonds, spewing forth a mouthful of + smoke as if to expel a bad taste. “What’s larceny among + friends?” + </p> + <p> + “But we’re not taking anything of value, since there’s + no copyright and any one can grab it,” pointed out the smooth + Severance. + </p> + <p> + Thus there entered into the high-tension atmosphere of the sensationalized + Patriot the relaxing quality of humor. Under the ingenuous and acquisitive + Sheffer, whose twins achieved immediate popularity, it developed along + other lines. Sheffer—who knew what makes business men laugh—pinned + his simple faith to three main subjects, convulsive of the diaphragmatic + muscles, building up each series upon the inherent humor to be extracted + from physical violence as represented in the perpetrations and punishments + of Ruff and Reddy, marital infidelity as mirrored in the stratagems and + errancies of an amorous ape with an aged and jealous spouse, and the + sure-fire familiarity of aged minstrel jokes (mother-in-law, country + constable, young married cookery, and the like) refurbished in pictorial + serials through the agency of two uproarious and imbecilic vulgarians, + Bonehead and Buttinsky. + </p> + <p> + Children cried for them, and laughed to exhaustion over them. Not less did + the mentally exhausted business man writhe abdominally over their appeal. + Spread across the top of three pages they wrung the profitable belly-laugh + from growing thousands of new readers. If Banneker sometimes had + misgivings that the educational influence of The Patriot was not notably + improved by all this instigation of crime and immorality made subject for + mirth in the mind of developing youth, he stifled them in the thought of + increased reading public for his own columns. Furthermore, it was not his + newspaper, anyway. + </p> + <p> + But the editorial page was still peculiarly his own, and with that clarity + of view which he never permitted personal considerations to prejudice, + Banneker perceived that it was falling below pitch. Or, rather, that, + while it remained static, the rest of the paper, under the stimulus of + Severance, Capron, Sheffer, and, in the background but increasingly though + subtly assertive, Marrineal, had raised its level of excitation. Change + his editorials he would not. Nor was there need; the response to them was + too widespread and fervent, their following too blindly fanatic, the + opposition roused by them too furious to permit of any doubt as to their + effectiveness. But that portion of the page not taken up by his writings + and the cartoon (which was often based upon an idea supplied by him), was + susceptible of alteration, of keying-up. Casting about him for the popular + note, the circus appeal, he started a “signed-article” + department of editorial contributions to which he invited any and all + persons of prominence in whatever line. The lure of that universal egotism + which loves to see itself in the public eye secured a surprising number of + names. Propagandists were quick to appreciate the opportunity of The + Patriot’s wide circulation for furthering their designs, selfish or + altruistic. To such desirables as could not be caught by other lures, + Banneker offered generous payment. + </p> + <p> + It was on this latter basis that he secured a prize, in the person of the + Reverend George Bland, ex-revivalist, ex-author of pious stories for the + young, skilled dealer in truisms, in wordy platitudes couched largely in + plagiarized language from the poets and essayists, in all the + pseudo-religious slickeries wherewith men’s souls are so easily + lulled into self-satisfaction. The Good, the True, the Beautiful; these + were his texts, but the real god of his worship was Success. This, under + the guise of Duty (“man’s God-inspired ambition to be true to + his best possibilities”), he preached day in and day out through his + “Daily Help” in The Patriot: Be guided by me and you will be + good: Be good and you will be prosperous: Be prosperous and you will be + happy. On an adjoining page there were other and far more specific + instructions as to how to be prosperous and happy, by backing Speedfoot at + 10 to 1 in the first race, or Flashaway at 5 to 2 in the third. Sometimes + the Reverend Bland inveighed convincingly against the evils of betting. + Yet a cynic might guess that the tipsters’ recipes for being + prosperous and happy (and therefore, by a logical inversion, good) were + perhaps as well based and practical as the reverend moralist’s. His + correspondence, surest indication of editorial following, grew to be + almost as large as Banneker’s. Severance nicknamed him “the + Oracle of Boobs,” and for short he became known as the “Booblewarbler,” + for there were times when he burst into verse, strongly reminiscent of the + older hymnals. This he resented hotly and genuinely, for he was quite + sincere; as sincere as Sheffer, in his belief in himself. But he despised + Sheffer and feared Severance, not for what the latter represented, but for + the cynical honesty of his attitude. In retort for Severance’s stab, + he dubbed the pair Mephistopheles and Falstaff, which was above his usual + felicitousness of characterization. Sheffer (who read Shakespeare to + improve his mind, and for ideas!) was rather flattered. + </p> + <p> + Even the platitudinous Bland had his practical inspirations; if they had + not been practical, they would not have been Bland’s. One of these + was an analysis of the national business character. + </p> + <p> + “We Americans,” he wrote, “are natural merchandisers. We + care less for the making of a thing than for the selling of it. + Salesmanship is the great American game. It calls forth all our native + genius; it is the expression of our originality, our inventiveness, our + ingenuity, our idealism,” and so on, for a full column slathered + with deadly and self-betraying encomiums. For the Reverend Bland believed + heartily that the market was the highest test of humankind. <i>He</i> + would rather sell a thing than make it! In fact, anything made with any + other purpose than to sell would probably not be successful, and would + fail to make its author prosperous; therefore it must be wrong. Not the + creator, but the salesman was the modern evangel. + </p> + <p> + “The Booblewarbler has given away the game,” commented + Severance with his slight, ironic smile, the day when this naive effusion + appeared. “He’s right, of course. But he thinks he’s + praising when he’s damning.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker was disturbed. But the flood of letters which came in promptly + reassured him. The Reverend editorializer was hailed broadcast as the + Messiah of the holy creed of Salesmanship, of the high cult of getting rid + of something for more than it is worth. He was organized into a lecture + tour; his department in the paper waxed ever greater. Banneker, with his + swift appreciation of a hit, followed the lead with editorials; hired + authors to write short stories glorifying the ennobled figure of the + Salesman, his smartness, his strategy, his ruthless trickery, his success. + And the salesmanhood of the nation, in trains, in hotel lobbies, at the + breakfast table with its Patriot propped up flanking the egg and coffee, + rose up to call him blessed and to add to his income. + </p> + <p> + Personal experiences in achieving success were a logical sequence to this; + success in any field, from running a city as set forth by His Honor the + Mayor, to becoming a movie star, by all the movie stars or aspirants whom + their press-agents could crowd into the paper. A distinguished novelist of + notably high blood-pressure contributed a series of thoughtful essays on + “How to be Irresistible in Love,” and a sentimental pugilist + indulged in reminiscences (per a hired pen from the cheap magazine field) + upon “The Influence of my Mother on my Career.” An imitator of + Banneker developed a daily half-column of self-improvement and inspiration + upon moral topics, achieving his effects by capitalizing all the words + which otherwise would have been too feeble or banal to attract notice, + thereby giving an air of sublimated importance to the mildly + incomprehensible. Nine tenths of The Patriot’s editorial readers + believed that they were following a great philosopher along the path of + the eternal profundities. To give a touch of science, an amateur + astronomer wrote stirring imaginative articles on interstellar space, and + there were occasional “authoritative” pronouncements by men of + importance in the political, financial, or intellectual worlds, lifted + from public speeches or old publications. The page, if it did not actually + itch, buzzed and clanged. But above the composite clamor rose ever the + voice of Banneker, clear, serene, compelling. + </p> + <p> + And Banneker took his pay for it, deeming it well earned. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + Life was broadening out before Banneker into new and golden persuasions. + He had become a person of consequence, a force to be reckoned with, in the + great, unheeding city. By sheer resolute thinking and planning, expressed + and fulfilled in unsparing labor, he had made opportunity lead to + opportunity until his position was won. He was courted, sought after, + accepted by representative people of every sort, their interest and liking + answering to his broad but fine catholicity of taste in human + relationships. If he had no intimates other than Russell Edmonds, it was + because he felt no need of them. + </p> + <p> + He had found Io again. + </p> + <p> + Prophecies had all failed in the matter of his rise. He thought, with + pardonable exultation, of how he had confuted them, one after another. + Cressey had doubted that one could be at the same time a successful + journalist and a gentleman; Horace Vanney had deemed individuality + inconsistent with newspaper writing; Tommy Burt and other jejune + pessimists of the craft had declared genuine honesty incompatible with the + higher and more authoritative phases of the profession. Almost without set + plan and by an inevitable progress, as it now seemed to him, he had risen + to the most conspicuous, if not yet the most important, position on Park + Row, and had suffered no conscious compromise of standards, whether of + self-respect, self-assertion, or honor. + </p> + <p> + Had he ever allowed monetary considerations seriously to concern him, he + might have been troubled by an untoward and not easily explicable + phenomenon. His bank account consistently failed to increase in ratio to + his earnings. In fact, what with tempting investments, the importunities + of a highly luxurious taste in life hitherto unsuspected, and an + occasional gambling flyer, his balance was precarious, so to speak. With + the happy optimism of one to whom the rosy present casts an intensified + glow upon the future, he confidently anticipated a greatly and steadily + augmented income, since the circulation of The Patriot was now the terror + of its rivals. That any radical alteration could be made in his method of + recompense did not occur to him. So completely had he identified himself + with The Patriot that he subconsciously regarded himself as essential to + its prosperity if not to its actual existence. Therein he was supported by + all the expert opinion of Park Row. Already he had accepted one + modification of his contract, and his takings for new circulation were now + twenty-five cents per unit per year instead of fifty cents as formerly. + </p> + <p> + But Tertius Marrineal and his business manager, a shrewd and practical + gentleman named Haring, had done a vast deal of expert figuring, as a + result of which the owner strolled into his editor’s office one noon + with his casual air of having nothing else to do, and pleasantly inquired: + </p> + <p> + “Busy?” + </p> + <p> + “If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be worth much,” returned + Banneker, in a cheerful tone. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you can spare me fifteen minutes—” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down.” Banneker swiveled his chair to face the other. + </p> + <p> + “I needn’t tell you that the paper is a success; a big + success,” began Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t. But it’s always pleasant to hear.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly too big a success. What would you say to letting + circulation drop for a while?” + </p> + <p> + “What!” Banneker felt a momentary queer sensation near the pit + of his stomach. If the circulation dropped, his income followed it. But + could Marrineal be serious? + </p> + <p> + “The fact is we’ve reached the point where more circulation is + a luxury. We’re printing an enormous paper, and wood-pulp prices are + going up. If we could raise our advertising rates;—but Mr. Haring + thinks that three raises a year is all the traffic will bear. The fact is, + Mr. Banneker, that the paper isn’t making money. We’ve run + ahead of ourselves. You’re swallowing all the profits.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker’s inner voice said warningly to Banneker, “So that’s + it.” Banneker’s outer voice said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Then there’s the matter of advertising. Your policy is not + helping us much there.” + </p> + <p> + “The advertising is increasing.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in proportion to circulation. Nothing like.” + </p> + <p> + “If the proper ratio isn’t maintained, that is the concern of + the advertising department, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much the concern. Will you talk with Mr. Haring about it?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Early in Banneker’s editorship it had been agreed that he should + keep free of any business or advertising complications. Experience and the + warnings of Russell Edmonds had told him that the only course of editorial + independence lay in totally ignoring the effect of what he might write + upon the profits and prejudices of the advertisers, who were, of course, + the principal support of the paper. Furthermore, Banneker heartily + despised about half of the advertising which the paper carried; dubious + financial proffers, flamboyant mercantile copy of diamond dealers, cheap + tailors, installment furniture profiteers, the lure of loan sharks and + race-track tipsters, and the specious and deadly fallacies of the medical + quacks. Appealing as it did to an ignorant and “easy” class of + the public (“Banneker’s First-Readers,” Russell Edmonds + was wont to call them), The Patriot offered a profitable field for all the + pitfall-setters of print. The less that Banneker knew about them the more + comfortable would he be. So he turned his face away from those columns. + </p> + <p> + The negative which he returned to Marrineal’s question was no more + or less than that astute gentleman expected. + </p> + <p> + “We carried an editorial last week on cigarettes, ‘There’s + a Yellow Stain on Your Boy’s Fingers—Is There Another on his + Character?’” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It is still bringing in letters.” + </p> + <p> + “It is. Letters of protest.” + </p> + <p> + “From the tobacco people?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. Mr. Banneker, don’t you regard tobacco as a + legitimate article of use?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, entirely. Couldn’t do without it, myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Why attack it, then, in your column?” + </p> + <p> + “Because my column,” answered Banneker with perceptible + emphasis on the possessive, “doesn’t believe that cigarettes + are good for boys.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody does. But the effect of your editorial is to play into the + hands of the anti-tobacco people. It’s an indiscriminate onslaught + on all tobacco. That’s the effect of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly.” + </p> + <p> + “And the result is that the tobacco people are threatening to cut us + off from their new advertising appropriation.” + </p> + <p> + “Out of my department,” said Banneker calmly. + </p> + <p> + Marrineal was a patient man. He pursued. “You have offended the + medical advertisers by your support of the so-called Honest Label Bill.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a good bill.” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly a quarter of our advertising revenue is from the + patent-medicine people.” + </p> + <p> + “Mostly swindlers.” + </p> + <p> + “They pay your salary,” Marrineal pointed out. + </p> + <p> + “Not mine,” said Banneker vigorously. “The paper pays my + salary.” + </p> + <p> + “Without the support of the very advertisers that you are attacking, + it couldn’t continue to pay it. Yet you decline to admit any + responsibility to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. To them or for them.” + </p> + <p> + “I confess I can’t see your basis,” said the reasonable + Marrineal. “Considering what you have received in income from the + paper—” + </p> + <p> + “I have worked for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Admitted. But that you should absorb practically all the profits—isn’t + that a little lopsided, Mr. Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “What is your proposition, Mr. Marrineal?” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal put his long, delicate fingers together, tip to tip before his + face, and appeared to be carefully reckoning them up. About the time when + he might reasonably have been expected to have audited the total and found + it to be the correct eight with two supplementary thumbs, he ejaculated: + </p> + <p> + “Coöperation.” + </p> + <p> + “Between the editorial page and the advertising department?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I should have said profit-sharing. I propose that in lieu + of our present arrangement, based upon a percentage on a circulation which + is actually becoming a liability instead of an asset, we should reckon + your salary on a basis of the paper’s net earnings.” As + Banneker, sitting with thoughtful eyes fixed upon him, made no comment, he + added: “To show that I do not underestimate your value to the paper, + I propose to pay you fifteen per cent of the net earnings for the next + three years. By the way, it won’t be necessary hereafter, for you to + give any time to the news or Sunday features.” + </p> + <p> + “No. You’ve got out of me about all you could on that side,” + observed Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “The policy is established and successful, thanks largely to you. I + would be the last to deny it.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you reckon as my probable income under the proposed + arrangement?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” answered the proprietor apologetically, “it + would be somewhat reduced this year. If our advertising revenue increases, + as it naturally should, your percentage might easily rise above your + earnings under the old arrangement.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” commented Banneker thoughtfully. “You propose + to make it worth my while to walk warily. As the pussy foots it, so to + speak.” + </p> + <p> + “I ask you to recognize the fairness of the proposition that you + conduct your column in the best interests of the concern—which, + under the new arrangement, would also be your own best interests.” + </p> + <p> + “Clear. Limpidly clear,” murmured Banneker. “And if I + decline the new basis, what is the alternative?” + </p> + <p> + “Cut down circulation, and with it, loss.” + </p> + <p> + “And the other, the real alternative?” queried the + imperturbable Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Marrineal smiled, with a touch of appeal in his expression. + </p> + <p> + “Frankness is best, isn’t it?” propounded the editor. + “I don’t believe, Mr. Marrineal, that this paper can get along + without me. It has become too completely identified with my editorial + idea. On the other hand, I can get along without it.” + </p> + <p> + “By accepting the offer of the Mid-West Evening Syndicate, beginning + at forty thousand a year?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re well posted,” said Banneker, startled. + </p> + <p> + “Of necessity. What would you suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Your information is fairly accurate.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m prepared to make you a guarantee of forty thousand, as a + minimum.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall make nearer sixty than fifty this year.” + </p> + <p> + “At the expense of a possible loss to the paper. Come, Mr. Banneker; + the fairness of my offer is evident. A generous guarantee, and a brilliant + chance of future profits.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>And</i> a free hand with my editorials?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely that will arrange itself.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely what I fear.” Banneker had been making some swift + calculations on his desk-blotter. Now he took up a blue pencil and with a + gesture, significant and not without dramatic effect, struck it down + through the reckoning. “No, Mr. Marrineal. It isn’t good + enough. I hold to the old status. When our contract is out—” + </p> + <p> + “Just a moment, Mr. Banneker. Isn’t there a French proverb, + something about no man being as indispensable as he thinks?” + Marrineal’s voice was never more suave and friendly. “Before + you make any final decision, look these over.” He produced from his + pocket half a dozen of what appeared to be Patriot editorial clippings. + </p> + <p> + The editor of The Patriot glanced rapidly through them. A puzzled frown + appeared on his face. + </p> + <p> + “When did I write these?” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Who did?” + </p> + <h3> + “I” + </h3> + <p> + “They’re dam’ good.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t they!” + </p> + <p> + “Also, they’re dam’ thievery.” + </p> + <p> + “Doubtless you mean flattery. In its sincerest form. Imitation.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfect. I could believe I’d written them myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I’ve been a very careful student of The Patriot’s + editorial style.” + </p> + <p> + “The Patriot’s! Mine!” + </p> + <p> + “Surely not. You would hardly contend seriously that, having paid + the longest price on record for the editorials, The Patriot has not a + vested right in them and their style.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Banneker thoughtfully. Inwardly he cursed + himself for the worst kind of a fool; the fool who underestimates the + caliber of his opponent. + </p> + <p> + “Would you say,” continued the smooth voice of the other, + “that these might be mistaken for your work?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody would know the difference. It’s robbery of the rankest + kind. But it’s infernally clever.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going to quarrel with you over a definition, Mr. + Banneker,” said Marrineal. He leaned a little forward with a smile + so frank and friendly that it quite astonished the other. “And I’m + not going to let you go, either,” he pursued. “You need me and + I need you. I’m not fool enough to suppose that the imitation can + ever continue to be as good as the real thing. We’ll make it a fifty + thousand guarantee, if you say so. And, as for your editorial policy—well, + I’ll take a chance on your seeing reason. After all, there’s + plenty of earth to prance on without always treading on people’s + toes.... Well, don’t decide now. Take your time to it.” He + rose and went to the door. There he turned, flapping the loose imitations + in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Banneker,” he said chuckling, “aren’t they really + dam’ good!” and vanished. + </p> + <p> + In that moment Banneker felt a surge of the first real liking he had ever + known for his employer. Marrineal had been purely human for a flash. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, in the first revulsion after the proprietor had left, + Banneker’s unconquered independence rose within him, jealous and + clamant. He felt repressions, claims, interferences potentially closing in + upon his pen, also an undefined dread of the sharply revealed overseer. + That a force other than his own mind and convictions should exert + pressure, even if unsuccessful, upon his writings, was intolerable. Better + anything than that. The Mid-West Syndicate, he knew, would leave him + absolutely untrammeled. He would write the general director at once. + </p> + <p> + In the act of beginning the letter, the thought struck and stunned him + that this would mean leaving New York. Going to live in a Middle-Western + city, a thousand miles outside of the orbit in which moved Io Eyre! + </p> + <p> + He left the letter unfinished, and the issue to the fates. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + Put to the direct question, as, for example, on the witness stand, Mr. Ely + Ives would, before his connection with Tertius Marrineal, have probably + identified himself as a press-agent. In that capacity he had acted, from + time to time, for a railroad with many axes to grind, a widespread + stock-gambling enterprise, a minor political ring, a liquor combination, + and a millionaire widow from the West who innocently believed that + publicity, as manipulated by Mr. Ives, could gain social prestige for her + in the East. + </p> + <p> + In every phase of his employment, the ex-medical student had gathered + curious and valuable lore. In fact he was one of those acquisitive persons + who collect and hoard scandals, a miser of private and furtive + information. His was the zeal of the born collector; something of the + genius, too: he boasted a keen instinct. In his earlier and more + precarious days he had formed the habit of watching for and collating all + possible advices concerning those whom he worked for or worked against and + branching from them to others along radiating lines of business, social, + or family relationships. To him New York was a huge web, of sinister and + promising design, dim, involved, too often impenetrable in the corners + where the big spiders spin. He had two guiding maxims: “It may come + in handy some day,” and “They’ll all bear watching.” + Before the prosperous time, he had been, in his devotion to his guiding + principles, a practitioner of the detective arts in some of their least + savory phases; had haunted doorsteps, lurked upon corners, been rained + upon, snowed upon, possibly spat upon, even arrested; all of which he + accepted, mournful but uncomplaining. One cannot whole-heartedly serve an + ideal and come off scatheless. He was adroit, well-spoken, smooth of + surface, easy of purse, untiring, supple, and of an inexhaustible + good-humor. It was from the ex-medical student that Marrineal had learned + of Banneker’s offer from the Syndicate, also of his over-prodigal + hand in money matters. + </p> + <p> + “He’s got to have the cash,” was the expert’s + opinion upon Banneker. “There’s your hold on him.... Quit? No + danger. New York’s in his blood. He’s in love with life, + puppy-love; his clubs, his theater first-nights, his invitations to big + houses which he seldom accepts, big people coming to his House with Three + Eyes. And, of course, his sense of power in the paper. No; he won’t + quit. How could he? He’ll compromise.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you figure him to be the compromising sort?” asked + Marrineal doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t the journalistic Puritan that he lets on to be. Look + at that Harvey Wheelwright editorial,” pointed out the acute Ives. + “He don’t believe what he wrote about Wheelwright; just did it + for his own purposes. Well, if the oracle can work himself for his own + purposes, others can work him when the time comes, if it’s properly + managed.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal shook his head. “If there’s a weakness in him I + haven’t found it.” + </p> + <p> + Ives put on a look of confidential assurance. “Be sure it’s + there. Only it isn’t of the ordinary kind. Banneker is pretty big in + his way. No,” he pursued thoughtfully; “it isn’t women, + and it isn’t Wall Street, and it isn’t drink; it isn’t + even money, in the usual sense. But it’s something. By the way, did + I tell you that I’d found an acquaintance from the desert where + Banneker hails from?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” Marrineal’s tone subtly indicated that he should + have been told at once. That sort of thing was, indeed, the basis on which + Ives drew a considerable stipend from his patron’s private purse, as + “personal representative of Mr. Marrineal” for purposes + unspecified. + </p> + <p> + “A railroad man. From what he tells me there was some sort of + love-affair there. A girl who materialized from nowhere and spent two + weeks, mostly with the romantic station-agent. Might have been a princess + in exile, by my informant, who saw her twice. More likely some cheap + little skate of a movie actress on a bust.” + </p> + <p> + “A station-agent’s taste in women friends—” began + Marrineal, and forbore unnecessarily to finish. + </p> + <p> + “Possibly it has improved. Or—well, at any rate, there was + something there. My railroad man thinks the affair drove Banneker out of + his job. The fact of his being woman-proof here points to its having been + serious.” + </p> + <p> + “There was a girl out there about that time visiting Camilla Van + Arsdale,” remarked Marrineal carelessly; “a New York girl. One + of the same general set. Miss Van Arsdale used to be a New Yorker and + rather a distinguished one.” + </p> + <p> + Too much master of his devious craft to betray discomfiture over another’s + superior knowledge of a subject which he had tried to make his own, Ely + Ives remarked: + </p> + <p> + “Then she was probably the real thing. The princess on vacation. You + don’t know who she was, I suppose,” he added tentatively. + </p> + <p> + Marrineal did not answer, thereby giving his factotum uncomfortably to + reflect that he really must not expect payment for information and the + information also. + </p> + <p> + “I guess he’ll bear watching.” Ives wound up with his + favorite philosophy. + </p> + <p> + It was a few days after this that, by a special interposition of kindly + chance, Ives, having returned from a trip out of town, saw Banneker and Io + breakfasting in the station restaurant. To Marrineal he said nothing of + this at the time; nor, indeed, to any one else. But later he took it to a + very private market of his own, the breakfast-room of a sunny and secluded + house far uptown, where lived, in an aroma of the domestic virtues, a + benevolent-looking old gentleman who combined the attributes of the + ferret, the leech, and the vulture in his capacity as editor of that + famous weekly publication, The Searchlight. Ives did not sell in that + mart; he traded for other information. This time he wanted something about + Judge Willis Enderby, for he was far enough on the inside politically to + see in him a looming figure which might stand in the way of certain + projects, unannounced as yet, but tenderly nurtured in the ambitious + breast of Tertius C. Marrineal. From the gently smiling patriarch he + received as much of the unwritten records as that authority deemed it + expedient to give him, together with an admonition, thrown in for good + measure. + </p> + <p> + “Dangerous, my young friend! Dangerous!” + </p> + <p> + The passionate and patient collector thought it highly probable that + Willis Enderby would be dangerous game. Certainly he did not intend to + hunt in those fields, unless he could contrive a weapon of overwhelming + caliber. + </p> + <p> + Ely Ives’s analysis of Banneker’s situation was in a measure + responsible for Marrineal’s proposition of the new deal to his + editor. + </p> + <p> + “He has accepted it,” the owner told his purveyor of + information. “But the real fight is to come.” + </p> + <p> + “Over the policy of the editorial page,” opined Ives. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. This is only a truce.” + </p> + <p> + As a truce Banneker also regarded it. He had no desire to break it. Nor, + after it was established, did Marrineal make any overt attempt to + interfere with his conduct of his column. + </p> + <p> + After awaiting gage of battle from his employer, in vain, Banneker decided + to leave the issue to chance. Surely he was not surrendering any + principle, since he continued to write as he chose upon whatever topics he + selected. Time enough to fight when there should be urged upon him either + one of the cardinal sins of journalism, the <i>suppressio veri</i> or the + <i>suggestio falsi</i>, which he had more than once excoriated in other + papers, to the pious horror of the hush-birds of the craft who had + chattered and cheeped accusations of “fouling one’s own nest.” + </p> + <p> + Opportunity was not lacking to Marrineal for objections to a policy which + made powerful enemies for the paper; Banneker, once assured of his + following, had hit out right and left. From being a weak-kneed and rather + apologetic defender of the “common people,” The Patriot had + become, logically, under Banneker’s vigorous and outspoken policy, a + proponent of the side of labor against capital. It had hotly supported two + important and righteous local strikes and been the chief agent in winning + one. With equal fervor it had advocated a third strike whose justice was + at best dubious and had made itself anathema, though the strike was lost, + to an industrial group which was honestly striving to live up to honorable + standards. It had offended a powerful ring of bankers and for a time + embarrassed Marrineal in his loans. It had threatened editorial reprisals + upon a combination of those feared and arrogant advertisers, the + department stores, for endeavoring, with signal lack of success, to + procure the suppression of certain market news. It became known as + independent, honest, unafraid, radical (in Wall Street circles “socialistic” + or even “anarchistic”), and, to the profession, as dangerous + to provoke. Advertisers were, from time to time, alienated; public men, + often of The Patriot’s own trend of thought, opposed. Commercial + associations even passed resolutions, until Banneker took to publishing + them with such comment as seemed to him good and appropriate. Marrineal + uttered no protest, though the unlucky Haring beat his elegantly + waistcoated breast and uttered profane if subdued threats of resigning, + which were for effect only; for The Patriot’s circulation continued + to grow and the fact to which every advertising expert clings as to the + one solid hope in a vaporous calling, is that advertising follows + circulation. + </p> + <p> + Seldom did Banneker see his employer in the office, but Marrineal often + came to the Saturday nights of The House With Three Eyes, which had + already attained the fame of a local institution. As the numbers drawn to + it increased, it closed its welcoming orbs earlier and earlier, and, once + they were darkened, there was admittance only for the chosen few. + </p> + <p> + It was a first Saturday in October, New York’s homing month for its + indigenous social birds and butterflies, when The House triply blinked + itself into darkness at the untimely hour of eleven-forty-five. There was + the usual heterogeneous crowd there, alike in one particular alone, that + every guest represented, if not necessarily distinction, at least + achievement in his own line. Judge Willis Enderby, many times invited, had + for the first time come. At five minutes after midnight, the incorruptible + doorkeeper sent an urgent message requesting Mr. Banneker’s personal + attention to a party who declined politely but firmly to be turned away. + The host, answering the summons, found Io. She held out both hands to him. + </p> + <p> + “Say you’re glad to see me,” she said imperatively. + </p> + <p> + “Light up the three eyes,” Banneker ordered the doorman. + “Are you answered?” he said to Io. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s very pretty,” she approved. “It means + ‘welcome,’ doesn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Welcome,” he assented. + </p> + <p> + “Then Herbert and Esther can come in, can’t they? They’re + waiting in the car for me to be rejected in disgrace. They’ve even + bet on it.” + </p> + <p> + “They lose,” answered Banneker with finality. + </p> + <p> + “And you forgive me for cajoling your big, black Cerberus, because + it’s my first visit this year, and if I’m not nicely treated I’ll + never come again.” + </p> + <p> + “Your welcome includes full amnesty.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if you’ll let me have one of my hands back—it + doesn’t matter which one, really—I’ll signal the others + to come in.” + </p> + <p> + Which, accordingly, she did. Banneker greeted Esther Forbes and Cressey, + and waited for the trio until they came down. There was a stir as they + entered. There was usually a stir in any room which Io entered. She had + that quality of sending waves across the most placid of social pools. + Willis Enderby was one of the first to greet her, a quick irradiation of + pleasure relieving the austere beauty of his face. + </p> + <p> + “I thought the castle was closed,” he wondered. “How did + you cross the inviolable barriers?” + </p> + <p> + “I had the magic password,” smiled Io. + </p> + <p> + “Youth? Beauty? Or just audacity?” + </p> + <p> + “Your Honor is pleased to flatter,” she returned, drooping her + eyes at him with a purposefully artificial effect. From the time when she + was a child of four she had carried on a violent and highly appreciated + flirtation with “Cousin Billy,” being the only person in the + world who employed the diminutive of his name. + </p> + <p> + “You knew Banneker before? But, of course. Everybody knows Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s quite wonderful, isn’t it! He never makes an + effort, I’m told. People just come to him. Where did you meet him?” + </p> + <p> + Enderby told her. “We’re allies, in a way. Though sometimes he + is against us. He’s doing yeoman work in this reform mayoralty + campaign. If we elect Robert Laird, as I think we shall, it will be + chiefly due to The Patriot’s editorials.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you have confidence in Mr. Banneker?” she asked quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Well—in a way, I have,” he returned hesitantly. + </p> + <p> + “But with reservations,” she interpreted. “What are + they?” + </p> + <p> + “One, only, but a big one. The Patriot itself. You see, Io, The + Patriot is another matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Why is it another matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there’s Marrineal, for example.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know Mr. Marrineal. Evidently you don’t trust + him.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust nobody,” disclosed the lawyer, a little sternly, + “who is represented by what The Patriot is and does, whether it be + Marrineal, Banneker, or another.” His glance, wandering about the + room, fell on Russell Edmonds, seated in a corner talking with the Great + Gaines. “Unless it be Edmonds over there,” he qualified. + “All his life he has fought me as a corporation lawyer; yet I have + the queer feeling that I could trust the inmost secret of my life to his + honor. Probably I’m an old fool, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Io devoted a moment’s study to the lined and worn face of the + veteran. “No. I think you’re right,” she pronounced. + </p> + <p> + “In any case, he isn’t responsible for The Patriot. He can’t + help it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be so cryptic, Cousin Billy. Can’t help what? + What is wrong with the paper?” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “But I want to understand,” said imperious Io. + </p> + <p> + “As a basis to understanding, you’d have to read the paper.” + </p> + <p> + “I have. Everyday. All of it.” + </p> + <p> + He gave her a quick, reckoning look which she sustained with a slight + deepening of color. “The advertisements, too?” She nodded. + “What do you think of them?” + </p> + <p> + “Some of them are too disgusting to discuss.” + </p> + <p> + “Did it occur to you to compare them with the lofty standards of our + young friend’s editorials?” + </p> + <p> + “What has he to do with the advertisements?” she countered. + </p> + <p> + “Assume, for the sake of the argument, that he has nothing to do + with them. You may have noticed a recent editorial against race-track + gambling, with the suicide of a young bank messenger who had robbed his + employer to pay his losses as text.” + </p> + <p> + “Well? Surely that kind of editorial makes for good.” + </p> + <p> + “Being counsel for that bank, I happen to know the circumstances of + the suicide. The boy had pinned his faith to one of the race-track + tipsters who advertise in The Patriot to furnish a list of sure winners + for so much a week.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose that Mr. Banneker knew that?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably not. But he knows that his paper takes money for + publishing those vicious advertisements.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose he couldn’t help it?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably he can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what would you have him do? Stop writing the editorials? I + think it is evidence of his courage that he should dare to attack the + evils which his own paper fosters.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s one view of it, certainly,” replied Enderby + dryly. “A convenient view. But there are other details. Banneker is + an ardent advocate of abstinence, ‘Down with the Demon Rum!’ + The columns of The Patriot reek with whiskey ads. The same with tobacco.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Cousin Billy, you don’t believe that a newspaper should + shut out liquor and tobacco advertisements, do you?” + </p> + <p> + The lawyer smiled patiently. “Come back on the track, Io,” he + invited. “That isn’t the point. If a newspaper preaches the + harm in these habits, it shouldn’t accept money for exploiting them. + Look further. What of the loan-shark offers, and the blue-sky stock + propositions, and the damnable promises of the consumption and cancer + quacks? You can’t turn a page of The Patriot without stumbling on + them. There’s a smell of death about that money.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t all the newspapers publish the same kind of + advertisements?” argued the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. Some won’t publish an advertisement without + being satisfied of its good faith. Others discriminate less carefully. But + there are few as bad as The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “If Mr. Banneker were your client, would you advise him to resign?” + she asked shrewdly. + </p> + <p> + Enderby winced and chuckled simultaneously. “Probably not. It is + doubtful whether he could find another rostrum of equal influence. And his + influence is mainly for good. But since you seem to be interested in + newspapers, Io”—he gave her another of his keen glances—“from + The Patriot you can make a diagnosis of the disease from which modern + journalism is suffering. A deep-seated, pervasive insincerity. At its + worst, it is open, shameless hypocrisy. The public feels it, but is too + lacking in analytical sense to comprehend it. Hence the unformulated, + instinctive, universal distrust of the press. ‘I never believe + anything I read in the papers.’ Of course, that is both false and + silly. But the feeling is there; and it has to be reckoned with one day. + From this arises an injustice, that the few papers which are really + upright, honest, and faithful to their own standards, are tainted in the + public mind with the double-dealing of the others. Such as The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “You use The Patriot for your purposes,” Io pointed out. + </p> + <p> + “When it stands for what I believe right. I only wish I could trust + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you <i>really</i> feel that you can’t trust Mr. + Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah; we’re back to that!” thought Enderby with + uneasiness. Aloud he said: “It’s a very pretty problem whether + a writer who shares the profits of a hypocritical and dishonest policy can + maintain his own professional independence and virtue. I gravely doubt it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t,” said Io, and there was pride in her avowal. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said the Judge gravely, “what does it all + mean? Are you letting yourself become interested in Errol Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + Io raised clear and steady eyes to the concerned regard of her old friend. + “If I ever marry again, I shall marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not going to divorce poor Delavan?” asked the + other quickly. + </p> + <p> + “No. I shall play the game through,” was the quiet reply. + </p> + <p> + For a space Willis Enderby sat thinking. “Does Banneker know your—your + intentions?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t let him, Io.” + </p> + <p> + “He won’t know the intention. He may know the—the + feeling back of it.” A slow and glorious flush rose in her face, + making her eyes starry. “I don’t know that I can keep it from + him, Cousin Billy. I don’t even know that I want to. I’m an + honest sort of idiot, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “God grant that he may prove as honest!” he half whispered. + </p> + <p> + Presently Banneker, bearing a glass of champagne and some pâté sandwiches + for Io, supplanted the lawyer. + </p> + <p> + “Are you the devotee of toil that common report believes, Ban?” + she asked him lazily. “They say that you write editorials with one + hand and welcome your guests with the other.” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite that,” he answered. “To-night I’m not + thinking of work. I’m not thinking of anything but you. It’s + very wonderful, your being here.” + </p> + <p> + “But I want you to think of work. I want to see you in the very act. + Won’t you write an editorial for me?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “This late? That would be cruelty to my + secretary.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take it down for you. I’m fairly fast on the + typewriter.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you give me the subject, too?” + </p> + <p> + “No more than fair,” she admitted. “What shall it be? It + ought to be something with memories in it. Books? Poetry?” she + groped. “I’ve got it! Your oldest, favorite book. Have you + forgotten?” + </p> + <p> + “The Sears-Roebuck catalogue? I get a copy every season, to renew + the old thrill.” + </p> + <p> + “What a romanticist you are!” said she softly. “Couldn’t + you write an editorial about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t I? Try me. Come up to the den.” + </p> + <p> + He led the way to the remote austerities of the work-room. From a shelf he + took down the fat, ornate pamphlet, now much increased in bulk over its + prototype of the earlier years. With random finger he parted the leaves, + here, there, again and still again, seeking auguries. + </p> + <p> + “Ready?” he said. “Now, I shut my eyes—and we’re + in the shack again—the clean air of desert spaces—the click of + the transmitter in the office that I won’t answer, being more + importantly engaged—the faint fragrance of <i>you</i> permeating + everything—youth—the unknown splendor of life—Now! Go!” + </p> + <p> + Of that editorial, composed upon the unpromising theme of mail-order + merchandising, the Great Gaines afterward said that it was a kaleidoscopic + panorama set moving to the harmonic undertones of a song of winds and + waters, of passion and the inner meanings of life, as if Shelley had + rhapsodized a catalogue into poetic being and glorious significance. He + said it was foolish to edit a magazine when one couldn’t trust a + cheap newspaper not to come flaming forth into literature which turned one’s + most conscientious and aspiring efforts into tinsel. He also said “Damn!” + </p> + <p> + Io Welland (for it was Io Welland and not Io Eyre whom the soothsayer saw + before him as he declaimed), instrument and inspiration of the + achievement, said no word of direct praise. But as she wrote, her fingers + felt as if they were dripping electric sparks. When, at the close, he + asked, quite humbly, “Is that what you wanted?” she caught her + breath on something like a sob. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you a title,” she said, recovering herself. + “Call it ‘If there were Dreams to Sell.’” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s good!” he cried. “My readers won’t + get it. Pinheads! They get nothing that isn’t plain as the nose on + their silly faces. Never mind. It’s good for ’em to be puzzled + once in a while. Teaches ’em their place.... I’ll tell you who + will understand it, though,” he continued, and laughed queerly. + </p> + <p> + “All the people who really matter will.” + </p> + <p> + “Some who matter a lot to The Patriot will. The local merchants who + advertise with us. They’ll be wild.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “They hate the mail-order houses with a deadly fear, because the + cataloguers undersell them in a lot of lines. Won’t Rome howl the + day after this appears!” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about the relation between advertising and policy, Ban,” + invited Io, and summarized Willis Enderby’s views. + </p> + <p> + Banneker had formulated for his own use and comfort the fallacy which has + since become standard for all journalists unwilling or unable to face the + issue of their own responsibility to the public. He now gave it forth + confidently. + </p> + <p> + “A newspaper, Io, is like a billboard. Any one has a right to hire + it for purposes of exploiting and selling whatever he has to sell. In + accepting the advertisement, provided it is legal and decent, the + publisher accepts no more responsibility than the owner of the land on + which a billboard stands. Advertising space is a free forum.” + </p> + <p> + “But when it affects the editorial attitude—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the test,” he put in quickly. “That’s + why I’m glad to print this editorial of ours. It’s a + declaration of independence.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she acquiesced eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “If ever I use the power of my editorials for any cause that I don’t + believe in—yes, or for my own advantage or the advantage of my + employer—that will be the beginning of surrender. But as long as I + keep a free pen and speak as I believe for what I hold as right and + against what I hold as wrong, I can afford to leave the advertising policy + to those who control it. It isn’t my responsibility.... It’s + an omen, Io; I was waiting for it. Marrineal and I are at a deadlock on + the question of my control of the editorial page. This ought to furnish a + fighting issue. I’m glad it came from you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but if it’s going to make trouble for you, I shall be + sorry. And I was going to propose that we write one every Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + “Io!” he cried. “Does that mean—” + </p> + <p> + “It means that I shall become a regular attendant at Mr. Errol + Banneker’s famous Saturday nights. Don’t ask me what more it + means.” She rose and delivered the typed sheets into his hands. + “I—I don’t know, myself. Take me back to the others, + Ban.” + </p> + <p> + To Banneker, wakened next morning to a life of new vigor and sweetness, + the outcome of the mail-order editorial was worth not one troubled + thought. All his mind was centered on Io. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + Explosions of a powerful and resonant nature followed the publication of + the fantastic, imaginative, and delightful mail-order catalogue editorial. + In none of these senses, except the first, did it appeal to the + advertising managers of the various department stores. They looked upon it + as an outrage, an affront, a deliberate slap in the face for an + established, vested, and prodigal support of the newspaper press. What the + devil did The Patriot mean by it; The Patriot which sorely needed just + their class of reputable patronage, and, after sundry contortions of + rate-cutting, truckling, and offers of news items to back the advertising, + was beginning to get it? They asked themselves, and, failing of any + satisfactory answer, they asked The Patriot in no uncertain terms. + Receiving vague and pained replies, they even went to the length of + holding a meeting and sending a committee to wait upon the desperate + Haring, passing over the advertising manager who was a mere figurehead in + The Patriot office. + </p> + <p> + Then began one of those scenes of bullying and browbeating to which every + newspaper, not at once powerful and honest enough to command the fear and + respect of its advertisers, is at some time subjected. Haring, the victim + personifying the offending organ, was stretched upon the rack and put to + the question. What explanation had he to offer of The Patriot’s + breach of faith? + </p> + <p> + He had none, had the miserable business manager. No one could regret it + more than he. But, really, gentlemen, to call it a breach of faith— + </p> + <p> + What else was it? Wasn’t the paper turning on its own advertisers? + </p> + <p> + Well; in a sense. But not— + </p> + <p> + But nothing! Wasn’t it trying to undermine their legitimate + business? + </p> + <p> + Not intentionally, Mr. Haring was (piteously) sure. + </p> + <p> + Intentionally be damned! Did he expect to carry their advertising on one + page and ruin their business on another? Did he think they were putting + money into The Patriot—a doubtful medium for their business, at best—to + cut their own throats? They’d put it to him reasonably, now; who, + after all, paid for the getting out of The Patriot? Wasn’t it the + advertisers? + </p> + <p> + Certainly, certainly, gentlemen. Granted. + </p> + <p> + Could the paper run a month, a fortnight, a week without advertising? + </p> + <p> + No; no! It couldn’t. No newspaper could. + </p> + <p> + Then if the advertisers paid the paper’s way, weren’t they + entitled to some say about it? Didn’t it have a right to give + ’em at least a fair show? + </p> + <p> + Indeed, gentlemen, if he, Haring, were in control of the paper— + </p> + <p> + Then, why; why the <i>hell</i> was a cub of an editor allowed to cut loose + and jump their game that way? They could find other places to spend their + money; yes, and get a better return for it. They’d see The Patriot, + and so on, and so forth. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Haring understood their feelings, sympathized, even shared them. + Unfortunately the editorial page was quite out of his province. + </p> + <p> + Whose province was it, then? Mr. Banneker’s, eh? And to whom was Mr. + Banneker responsible? Mr. Marrineal, alone? All right! They would see Mr. + Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Haring was sorry, but Mr. Marrineal was out of town. (Fiction.) + </p> + <p> + Well, in that case, Banneker. They’d trust themselves to show him + which foot he got off on. They’d teach (two of them, in their stress + of emotion, said “learn”; they were performing this in chorus) + Banneker— + </p> + <p> + Oh, Mr. Banneker wasn’t there, either. (Haring, very terrified, and + having built up an early conception of the Wild West Banneker from the + clean-up of the dock gang, beheld in his imagination dejected members of + the committee issuing piecemeal from the doors and windows of the + editorial office, the process being followed by an even more regrettable + exodus of advertising from the pages of The Patriot.) + </p> + <p> + Striving to be at once explanatory and propitiatory to all and sundry, + Haring was reduced to inarticulate, choking interjections and paralytic + motions of the hands, when a member of the delegation, hitherto silent, + spoke up. + </p> + <p> + He was the representative of McLean & Swazey, a college graduate of a + type then new, though now much commoner, in the developing profession of + advertising. He had read the peccant editorial with a genuine relish of + its charm and skill, and had justly estimated it for what it was, an + intellectual <i>jeu d’esprit</i>, the expression of a passing fancy + for a tempting subject, not of a policy to be further pursued. + </p> + <p> + “Enough has been said, I think, to define our position,” said + he. “All that we need is some assurance that Mr. Banneker’s + wit and skill will not be turned again to the profit of our competitors + who, by the way, do <i>not</i> advertise in The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + Haring eagerly gave the assurance. He would have given assurance of + Banneker’s head on a salver to be rid of these persecuting + autocrats. They withdrew, leaving behind an atmosphere of threat and + disaster, dark, inglorious clouds of which Haring trailed behind him when + he entered the office of the owner with his countenance of woe. His + postulate was that Mr. Marrineal should go to his marplot editor and duly + to him lay down the law; no more offending of the valuable + department-store advertisers. No; nor of any others. Or he, Haring + (greatly daring), would do it himself. + </p> + <p> + Beside the sweating and agonizing business manager, Marrineal looked very + cool and tolerant and mildly amused. + </p> + <p> + “If you did that, Mr. Haring, do you appreciate what the result + would be? We should have another editorial worse than the first, as soon + as Mr. Banneker could think it out. No; you leave this to me. I’ll + manage it.” + </p> + <p> + His management took the negative form of a profound silence upon the + explicit point. But on the following morning Banneker found upon his desk + a complete analytical table showing the advertising revenue of the paper + by classes, with a star over the department-store list, indicating a dated + withdrawal of twenty-two thousand dollars a year. The date was of that + day. Thus was Banneker enabled to figure out, by a simple process, the + loss to himself of any class of advertising, or even small group in a + class, dropping out of the paper. It was clever of Marrineal, he admitted + to himself, and, in a way, disappointing. His proffered gage of battle had + been refused, almost ignored. The issue was not to be joined when he was + ready, but when Marrineal was ready, and on Marrineal’s own ground. + Very well, Banneker could be a good waiter. Meantime he had at least + asserted his independence. + </p> + <p> + Io called him up by ‘phone, avid of news of the editorial, and he + was permitted to take her to luncheon and tell her all about it. In her + opinion he had won a victory; established a position. Banneker was far + less sanguine; he had come to entertain a considerable respect for + Marrineal’s capacity. And he had another and more immediate + complication on his mind, which fact his companion, by some occult + exercise of divination, perceived. + </p> + <p> + “What else is worrying you, Ban?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Banneker did not want to talk about that. He wanted to talk about Io, + about themselves. He said so. She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about the paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just the usual complications. There’s nothing to interest + you in them.” + </p> + <p> + “Everything,” she maintained ardently. + </p> + <p> + Banneker caught his breath. Had she given him her lips, it could hardly + have meant more—perhaps not meant so much as this tranquil + assumption of her right to share in the major concerns of his life. + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve been reading the paper,” he began, and waited + for her silent nod before going on, “you know our attitude toward + organized labor.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You are for it when it is right and not always against it when + it is wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “One can’t split hairs in a matter of editorial policy. I’ve + made The Patriot practically the mouthpiece of labor in this city; much + more so than the official organ, which has no influence and a small + following. Just now I’m specially anxious to hold them in line for + the mayoralty campaign. We’ve got to elect Robert Laird. Otherwise + we’ll have such an orgy of graft and rottenness as the city has + never seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t the labor element for Laird?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t against him, except that he is naturally regarded as + a silk-stocking. The difficulty isn’t politics. There’s some + new influence in local labor circles that is working against me; against + The Patriot. I think it’s a fellow named McClintick, a new man from + the West.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he wants to be bought off.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re thinking of the old style of labor leader,” + returned Banneker. “It isn’t as simple as that. No; from what + I hear, he’s a fanatic. And he has great influence.” + </p> + <p> + “Get hold of him and talk it out with him,” advised Io. + </p> + <p> + “I intend to.” He brooded for a moment. “There isn’t + a man in New York,” he said fretfully, “that has stood for the + interests of the masses and against the power of money as I have. Why, Io, + before we cut loose in The Patriot, a banker or a railroad president was + sacrosanct. His words were received with awe. Wall Street was the holy of + holies, not to be profaned by the slightest hint of impiety. Well, we’ve + changed all that! Not I, alone. Our cartoons have done more than the + editorials. Every other paper in town has had to follow our lead. Even The + Ledger.” + </p> + <p> + “I like The Ledger,” declared Io. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. It has a sort of dignity; the dignity of + self-respect.” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t The Patriot?” demanded the jealous Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit,” she answered frankly, “except for your + editorials. They have the dignity of good workmanship, and honesty, and + courage, even when you’re wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Are we so often wrong, Io?” he said wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “Dear boy, you can’t expect a girl, brought up as I have been, + to believe that society is upside down, and would be better if it were + tipped over the other way and run by a lot of hod-carriers and + ditch-diggers and cooks. Can you, now?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. Nor is that what I advocate. I’m for the under + dog. For fair play. So are you, aren’t you? I saw your name on the + Committee List of the Consumers’ League, dealing with conditions in + the department stores.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s different,” she said. “Those girls haven’t + a chance in some of the shops. They’re brutalized. The stores don’t + even pretend to obey the laws. We are trying to work out some sort of + organization, now, for them.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you’re hostile to organized labor! Who shall ever + understand the feminine mind! Some day you’ll be coming to us for + help.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely. It must be a curious sensation, Ban, to have the + consciousness of the power that you wield, and to be responsible to nobody + on earth.” + </p> + <p> + “To the public that reads us,” he corrected. + </p> + <p> + “Not a real responsibility. There is no authority over you; no + appeal from your judgments. Hasn’t that something to do with people’s + dislike and distrust of the newspapers; the sense that so much + irresponsible power is wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Yet,” he said, “any kind of censorship is worse than + the evil it remedies. I’ve never shown you my creed, have I?” + </p> + <p> + His manner was half jocular; there was a smile on his lips, but his eyes + seemed to look beyond the petty troubles and problems of his craft to a + final and firm verity. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” she bade him. + </p> + <p> + He drew his watch out and opened the back. For a moment she thought, with + confused emotions, that she would see there a picture of herself of which + he might have possessed himself somewhere. She closed her eyes momentarily + against the fear of that anti-climax. When she opened them, it was to + read, in a clear, fine print those high and sure words of Milton’s + noblest message: + </p> + <p> + And though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the + earth, so truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and + prohibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood grapple; who + ever knew truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter? Her + confuting is the best and surest suppressing. + </p> + <p> + Twice she read the pregnant message. + </p> + <p> + “I have it,” said she gravely. “To keep—for + always.” + </p> + <p> + “Some day I’ll put it at the head of The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not now?” + </p> + <p> + “Not ready. I want to be surer; absolutely sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure,” she declared superbly; “of you.” + </p> + <p> + “You make me sure of myself, Io. But there’s Marrineal.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; there’s Marrineal. You must have a paper of your own, + mustn’t you, Ban, eventually?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. If I ever get enough money to own it absolutely.” + </p> + <p> + “Only four years ago,” she murmured, with apparent + irrelevancy. “And now—” + </p> + <p> + “When shall I see you again?” he asked anxiously as she rose. + “Are you coming Saturday night?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Io. + </p> + <p> + Through the agency of Russell Edmonds, McClintick, the labor leader, came + to see Banneker. He was a stooping giant with a deep, melancholy voice, + and his attitude toward The Patriot was one of distrustful reticence. + Genuine ardor has, however, a warming influence. McClintick’s + silence melted by degrees, not into confidence but, surprisingly, into + indignation, directed upon all the “capitalistic press” in + general, but in particular against The Patriot. Why single out The + Patriot, specially, Banneker asked. + </p> + <p> + “Hypocrite,” muttered the giant. + </p> + <p> + At length the reason came out, under pressure: The Patriot had been (in + the words of the labor man) making a big row over the arrest of certain + labor organizers, in one of the recurrent outbreaks against the Steel + Trust, opposed by that organization’s systematic and tyrannous + method of oppression. So far, so good. But why hadn’t the paper said + a word about the murder of strikers’ wives and children out at the + Veridian Lumber Company’s mills in Oregon; an outrage far surpassing + anything ever laid to the account of the Steel Trust? Simple reason, + answered Banneker; there had been no news of it over the wires. No; of + course there hadn’t. The Amalgamated Wire Association (another tool + of capitalism) had suppressed it; wouldn’t let any strike stuff get + on the wires that it could keep off. Then how, asked Banneker, could it be + expected—? McClintick interrupted in his voice of controlled + passion; had Mr. Banneker ever heard of the Chicago Transcript (naming the + leading morning paper); had he ever read it? Well, The Transcript—which, + he, McClintick, hated strongly as an organ of money—nevertheless did + honestly gather and publish news, as he was constrained huskily to admit. + It had the Veridian story; was still running it from time to time. + Therefore, if Mr. Banneker was interested, on behalf of The Patriot— + </p> + <p> + Certainly, The Patriot was interested; would obtain and publish the story + in full, if it was as Mr. McClintick represented, with due editorial + comment. + </p> + <p> + “Will it?” grumbled McClintick, gave his hat a look of mingled + hope and skepticism, put it on, and went away. + </p> + <p> + “Now, what’s wrong with that chap’s mental digestion?” + Banneker inquired of Edmonds, who had sat quiet throughout the interview. + “What is he holding back?” + </p> + <p> + “Plenty,” returned the veteran in a tone which might have + served for echo of the labor man’s gloom. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know the Veridian story?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’ve just checked it up.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the milk in that cocoanut?” + </p> + <p> + “Sour!” said Edmonds with such energy that Banneker turned to + look at him direct. “The principal owner of Veridian is named + Marrineal.... Where you going, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “To see the principal owner of the name,” said Banneker + grimly. + </p> + <p> + The quest took him to the big house on upper Fifth Avenue. Marrineal heard + his editorial writer with impassive face. + </p> + <p> + “So the story has got here,” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Do you own Veridian?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Hope rose within Banneker. “You don’t?” + </p> + <p> + “My mother does. She’s in Europe. A rather innocent old + person. The innocence of age, perhaps. Quite old.” All of this in a + perfectly tranquil voice. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen The Chicago Transcript? It’s an ugly story.” + </p> + <p> + “Very. I’ve sent a man out to the camp. There won’t be + any more shootings.” + </p> + <p> + “It comes rather late. I’ve told McClintick, the labor man who + comes from Wyoming, that we’ll carry the story, if we verify it.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal raised his eyes slowly to Banneker’s stern face. “Have + you?” he said coolly. “Now, as to the mayoralty campaign; what + do you think of running a page feature of Laird’s reforms, as + President of the Board, tracing each one down to its effect and showing + what any backward step would mean? By the way, Laird is going to be pretty + heavily obligated to The Patriot if he’s elected.” + </p> + <p> + For half an hour they talked politics, nothing else. + </p> + <p> + At the office Edmonds was making a dossier of the Veridian reports. It was + ready when Banneker returned. + </p> + <p> + “Let it wait,” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Prudence ordained that he should throw the troublous stuff into the + waste-basket. He wondered if he was becoming prudent, as another man might + wonder whether he was becoming old. At any rate, he would make no decision + until he had talked it over with Io. Not only did he feel instinctive + confidence in her sense of fair play; but also this relationship of + interest in his affairs, established by her, was the opportunity of his + closest approach; an intimacy of spirit assured and subtle. He hoped that + she would come early on Saturday evening. + </p> + <p> + But she did not. Some dinner party had claimed her, and it was after + eleven when she arrived with Archie Densmore. At once Banneker took her + aside and laid before her the whole matter. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Ban!” she said softly. “It isn’t so simple, + having power to play with, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “But how am I to handle this?” + </p> + <p> + “The mills belong to Mr. Marrineal’s mother, you said?” + </p> + <p> + “Practically they do.” + </p> + <p> + “And she is—?” + </p> + <p> + “A silly and vain old fool.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that his opinion of her?” + </p> + <p> + “Necessarily. But he’s fond of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Will he really try to remedy conditions, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. So far as that goes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’d drop it.” + </p> + <p> + “Print nothing at all?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word.” + </p> + <p> + “That isn’t what I expected from you. Why do you advise it?” + </p> + <p> + “Loyalty.” + </p> + <p> + “The paralytic virtue,” said Banneker with such bitterness of + conviction that Io answered: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you don’t mean that to be simply clever.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s true, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a measure of truth in it. But, Ban, you can’t + use Mr. Marrineal’s own paper to expose conditions in Mr. Marrineal’s + mother’s mills. If he’d even directed you to hold off—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s his infernal cleverness. I’d have told him to go + to the devil.” + </p> + <p> + “And resigned?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “You can resign now,” she pointed out. “But I think you’d + be foolish. You can do such big things. You <i>are</i> doing such big + things with The Patriot. Cousin Billy Enderby says that if Laird is + elected it will be your doing. Where else could you find such opportunity?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me this, Io,” he said, after a moment of heavy-browed + brooding very unlike his usual blithe certainty of bearing. “Suppose + that lumber property were my own, and this thing had broken out.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’d say to print it, every word,” she answered + promptly. “Or”—she spoke very slowly and with a tremor + of color flickering in her cheeks—“if it were mine, I’d + tell you to print it.” + </p> + <p> + He looked up with a transfigured face. His hand fell on hers, in the + covert of the little shelter of plants behind which they sat. “Do + you realize what that implies?” he questioned. + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly,” she answered in her clear undertone. + </p> + <p> + He bent over to her hand, which turned, soft palm up, to meet his lips. + She whispered a warning and he raised his head quickly. Ely Ives had + passed near by. + </p> + <p> + “Marrineal’s familiar,” said Banneker. “I wonder + how he got here. Certainly I didn’t ask him.... Very well, Io. I’ll + compromise. But ... I don’t think I’ll put that quotation from + the Areopagitica at the head of my column. That will have to wait. Perhaps + it will have to wait until I—we get a paper of our own.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Ban!” whispered Io. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + Once a month Marrineal gave a bachelor dinner of Lucullan repute. The + company, though much smaller than the gatherings at The House With Three + Eyes, covered a broader and looser social range. Having declined several + of his employer’s invitations in succession on the well-justified + plea of work, Banneker felt it incumbent upon him to attend one of these + events, and accordingly found himself in a private dining-room of the + choicest of restaurants, tabled with a curiously assorted group of + financiers, editors, actors, a small selection of the more raffish members + of The Retreat including Delavan Eyre; Ely Ives; an elderly Jewish lawyer + of unsavory reputation, enormous income, and real and delicate + scholarship; Herbert Cressey, a pair of the season’s racing-kings, + an eminent art connoisseur, and a smattering of men-about-town. Seated + between the lawyer and one of the racing-men, Banneker, as the dinner + progressed, found himself watching Delavan Eyre, opposite, who was + drinking with sustained intensity, but without apparent effect upon his + debonair bearing. Banneker thought to read a haunting fear in his eyes, + and was cogitating upon what it might portend, when his attention was + distracted by Ely Ives, who had been requested (as he announced) to + exhibit his small skill at some minor sleight-of-hand tricks. The skill, + far from justifying its possessor’s modest estimate, was so unusual + as to provoke expressions of admiration from Mr. Stecklin, the lawyer on + Banneker’s right. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; hypnotism too,” said Ely Ives briskly, after twenty + minutes of legerdemain. “Child’s play.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, who suggested hypnotism?” murmured Stecklin in his + limpid and confidential undertone, close to Banneker’s ear. “You? + I? No! No one, <i>I</i> think.” + </p> + <p> + So Banneker thought, and was the more interested in Ives’s + procedure. Though the drinking had been heavy at his end of the table, he + seemed quite unaffected, was now tripping from man to man, peering into + the eyes of each, “to find an appropriate subject,” as he + said. Delavan Eyre roused himself out of a semi-torpor as the wiry little + prowler stared down at him. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the special idea?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Just a bit of mesmerism,” explained the other. “I’ll + try you for a subject. If you’ll stand up, feet apart, eyes closed, + I’ll hypnotize you so that you’ll fall over at a movement.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t do it,” retorted Eyre. + </p> + <p> + “For a bet,” Ives came back. + </p> + <p> + “A hundred?” + </p> + <p> + “Double it if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re on.” Eyre, slowly swallowing the last of a + brandy-and-soda, rose, reaching into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Not necessary, between gentlemen,” said Ely Ives with a + gesture just a little too suave. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes,” muttered the lawyer at Banneker’s side. + “Between gentlemen. Eck-xactly.” + </p> + <p> + Pursuant to instructions, Eyre stood with his feet a few inches apart and + his eyes closed. “At the word, you bring your heels together. Click! + And you keep your balance. If you can. For the two hundred. Any one else + want in?... No?... Ready, Mr. Eyre. Now! <i>Hep</i>!” + </p> + <p> + The heels clicked, but with a stuttering, weak impact. Eyre, bulky and + powerful, staggered, toppled to the left. + </p> + <p> + “Hold up there!” His neighbor propped him, and was clutched in + his grasp. + </p> + <p> + “Hands off!” said Eyre thickly. “Sorry, Banks! Let me + try that again. Oh, the bet’s yours, Mr. Ives,” he added, as + that keen gambler began to enter a protest. “Send you a check in the + morning—if that’ll be all right.” + </p> + <p> + Herbert Cressey, hand in pocket, was at his side instantly. “Pay him + now, Del,” he said in a tone which did not conceal his contemptuous + estimate of Ives. “Here’s money, if you haven’t it.” + </p> + <p> + “No; no! A check will be <i>quite</i> all right,” protested + Ives. “At your convenience.” + </p> + <p> + Others gathered about, curious and interested. Banneker, puzzled by a + vague suspicion which he sought to formulate, was aware of a low runnel of + commentary at his ear. + </p> + <p> + “Very curious. Shrewd; yes. A clever fellow.... Sad, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Sad?” He turned sharply on the lawyer of unsavory suits. + “What is sad about it? A fool and his money! Is that tragedy?” + </p> + <p> + “Comedy, my friend. Always comedy. This also, perhaps. But grim.... + Our friend there who is so clever of hand and eye; he is not perhaps a + medical man?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he is. What connection—Good God!” he cried, as a + flood of memory suddenly poured light upon a dark spot in some of his + forgotten reading. + </p> + <p> + “Ah? You know? Yes; I have had such a case in my legal practice. + Died of an—an error. He made a mistake—in a bottle, which he + purchased for that purpose. But this one—he elects to live and face + it—” + </p> + <p> + “Does he know it?” + </p> + <p> + “Obviously. One can see the dread in his eyes. Some of his friends + know it—and his family, I am told. But he does not know this + interesting little experiment of our friend. Profitable, too, eh? One + wonders how he came to suspect. A medical man, though; a keen eye. Of + course.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn him,” said Banneker quietly. “General paralysis?” + </p> + <p> + “Eck-xactly. Twelve, maybe fifteen years ago, a little recklessness. + A little overheating of the blood. Perhaps after a dinner like this. The + poison lies dormant; a snake asleep. Harms no one. Not himself; not + another. Until—something here”—he tapped the thick black + curls over the base of his brain. “All that ruddy strength, that + lusty good-humor passing on courageously—for he is a brave man, Eyre—to + slow torture and—and the end. Grim, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker reached for a drink. “How long?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “As for that, he is very strong. It might be slow. One prays not.” + </p> + <p> + “At any rate, that little reptile, Ives, shan’t have his + profit of it.” Banneker rose and, disdaining even the diplomacy of + an excuse, drew Ely Ives aside. + </p> + <p> + “That bet of yours was a joke, Ives,” he prescribed. + </p> + <p> + Ives studied him in silence, wishing that he had watched, through the + dinner, how much drink he took. + </p> + <p> + “A joke?” he asked coolly. “I don’t understand + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Try,” advised Banneker with earnestness. “I happen to + have read that luetic diagnosis, myself. A joke, Ives, so far as the two + hundred goes.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you expect me to do?” asked the other. + </p> + <p> + “Tear up the check, when it comes. Make what explanation your + ingenuity can devise. That’s your affair. But don’t cash that + check, Ives. For if you do—I dislike to threaten—” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t need to threaten me, Mr. Banneker,” + interrupted Ives eagerly. “If you think it wasn’t a fair bet, + your word is enough for me. That goes. It’s off. I think just that + of you. I’m a friend of yours, as I hope to prove to you some day. I + don’t lay this up against you; not for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Not trusting himself to make answer to this proffer, Banneker turned away + to find his host and make his adieus. As he left, he saw Delavan Eyre, + flushed but composed, sipping a liqueur and listening with courteous + appearance of appreciation to a vapid and slobbering story of one of the + racing magnates. A debauchee, a cumberer of the earth, useless, selfish, + scandalous of life—and Banneker, looking at him with pitiful eyes, + paid his unstinted tribute to the calm and high courage of the man. + </p> + <p> + Walking slowly home in the cool air, Banneker gave thanks for a + drink-proof head. He had need of it; he wanted to think and think clearly. + How did this shocking revelation about Eyre affect his own hopes of Io? + That she would stand by her husband through his ordeal Banneker never + doubted for an instant. Her pride of fair play would compel her to that. + It came to his mind that this was her other and secret reason for not + divorcing Eyre; for maintaining still the outward form of a marriage which + had ceased to exist long before. For a lesser woman, he realized with a + thrill, it would have been a reason for divorcing him.... Well, here was a + barrier, indeed, against which he was helpless. Opposed by a loyalty such + as Io’s he could only be silent and wait. + </p> + <p> + In the next few weeks she was very good to him. Not only did she lunch + with him several times, but she came to the Saturday nights of The House + With Three Eyes, sometimes with Archie Densmore alone, more often with a + group of her own set, after a dinner or a theater party. Always she made + opportunity for a little talk apart with her host; talks which any one + might have heard, for they were concerned almost exclusively with the + affairs of The Patriot, especially in its relation to the mayoralty + campaign now coming to a close. Yet, impersonal though the discussions + might be, Banneker took from them a sense of ever-increasing intimacy and + communion, if it were only from a sudden, betraying quiver in her voice, + an involuntary, unconscious look from the shadowed eyes. Whatever of + resentment he had cherished for her earlier desertion was now dissipated; + he was wholly hers, content, despite all his passionate longing for her, + with what she chose to give. In her own time she would be generous, as she + was brave and honorable.... + </p> + <p> + She was warmly interested in the election of Robert Laird to the + mayoralty, partly because she knew him personally, partly because the + younger element of society had rather “gone in for politics” + that year, on the reform side. Banneker had to admit to her, as the day + drew close, that the issue was doubtful. Though The Patriot’s fervid + support had been a great asset to the cause, it was now, for the moment, a + liability to the extent that it was being fiercely denounced in the + Socialist organ, The Summons, as treasonable to the interests of the + working-classes. The Summons charged hypocrisy, citing the case of the + Veridian strike. + </p> + <p> + “That is McClintick?” asked Io. + </p> + <p> + “He’s back of it, naturally. But The Summons has been waiting + its chance. Jealous of our influence in the field it’s trying to + cultivate.” + </p> + <p> + “McClintick is right,” remarked Io thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + Banneker laughed. “Oh, Io! It’s such a relief to get a clear + view and an honest one from some one else. There’s no one in the + office except Russell Edmonds, and he’s away now.... You think + McClintick is right? So do I.” + </p> + <p> + “But so are you. You had to do as you did about the story. If any + one is to blame, it is Mr. Marrineal. Yet how can one blame him? He had to + protect his mother. It’s a fearfully complicated phenomenon, a + newspaper, isn’t it, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Io, the soul of man is simple and clear compared with the soul of a + newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + “If it has a soul.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it has. It’s got to have. Otherwise what is it but + a machine?” + </p> + <p> + “Which is The Patriot’s; yours or Mr. Marrineal’s? I can’t,” + said Io quaintly, “quite see them coalescing.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if Marrineal has a soul,” mused Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “If he hasn’t one of his own, let him keep his hands off + yours!” said Io in a flash of feminine jealousy. “He’s + done enough already with his wretched mills. What shall you do about the + attack in The Summons?” + </p> + <p> + “Ignore it. It would be difficult to answer. Besides, people easily + forget.” + </p> + <p> + “A dangerous creed, Ban. And a cynical one. I don’t want you + to be cynical.” + </p> + <p> + “I never shall be again, unless—” + </p> + <p> + “Unless?” she prompted. + </p> + <p> + “It rests with you, Io,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + At once she took flight. “Am I to be keeper of your spirit?” + she protested. “It’s bad enough to be your professional + adviser. Why don’t you invite a crowd of us down to get the election + returns?” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Make up your party,” assented Banneker. “Keep it small; + say a dozen, and we can use my office.” + </p> + <p> + On the fateful evening there duly appeared Io with a group of a dozen + friends. From the first, it was a time of triumph. Laird took the lead and + kept it. By midnight, the result was a certainty. In a balcony speech from + his headquarters the victor had given generous recognition for his success + to The Patriot, mentioning Banneker by name. When the report reached them + Esther Forbes solemnly crowned the host with a wreath composed of the + “flimsy” on which the rescript of the speech had come in. + </p> + <p> + “Skoal to Ban!” she cried. “Maker of kings and mayors + and things. Skoal! As you’re a viking or something of the sort, the + Norse salutation is appropriate.” + </p> + <p> + “It ought to be Danish to be accurate,” he smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s a hardy, seafaring race,” she chattered. + “And that reminds me. Come on out to the South Seas with us.” + </p> + <p> + “Charmed,” he returned. “When do we start? To-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m not joking. You’ve certainly earned a vacation. + And of course you needn’t enlist for the whole six months if that is + too long. Dad has let me have the yacht. There’ll only be a dozen. + Io’s going along.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker shot one startled, incredulous look at Io Eyre, and instantly + commanded himself, to the point of controlling his voice to gayety as he + replied: + </p> + <p> + “And who would tell the new mayor how he should run the city, if I + deserted him? No, Esther, I’m afraid I’m chained to this desk. + Ask me sometime when you’re cruising as far as Coney Island.” + </p> + <p> + Io sat silent, and with a set smile, listening to Herbert Cressey’s + account of an election row in the district where he was volunteer watcher. + When the party broke up, she went home with Densmore without giving + Banneker the chance of a word with her. It seemed to him that there was a + mute plea for pardon in her face as she bade him good-night. + </p> + <p> + At noon next day she called him on the ‘phone. + </p> + <p> + “Just to tell you that I’m coming as usual Saturday evening,” + she said. + </p> + <p> + “When do you leave on your cruise?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not until next week. I’ll tell you when I see you. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Never had Banneker seen Io in such difficult mood as she exhibited on the + Saturday. She had come early to The House With Three Eyes, accompanied by + Densmore who looked in just for one drink before going to a much-touted + boxing-match in Jersey. Through the evening she deliberately avoided + seeing Banneker alone for so much as the space of a query put and + answered, dividing her attention between an enraptured master of the + violin who had come after his concert, and an aged and bewildered inventor + who, in a long career of secluded toil, had never beheld anything like + this brilliant creature with her intelligent and quickening interest in + what he had to tell her. Rivalry between the two geniuses inspired the + musician to make an offer which he would hardly have granted to royalty + itself. + </p> + <p> + “After a time, when zese chatterers are gon-away, I shall play for + you. Is zere some one here who can accompany properly?” + </p> + <p> + Necessarily Io sent for Banneker to find out. Yes; young Mackey was coming + a little later; he was a brilliant amateur and would be flattered at the + opportunity. With a direct insistence difficult to deny, Banneker drew Io + aside for a moment. Her eyes glinted dangerously as she faced him, alone + for the moment, with the question that was the salute before the crossing + of blades. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you really going, Io?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Why shouldn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “Say that, for one reason”—he smiled faintly, but + resolutely—“The Patriot needs your guiding inspiration.” + </p> + <p> + “All The Patriot’s troubles are over. It’s plain sailing + now.” + </p> + <p> + “What of The Patriot’s editor?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite able to take care of himself.” + </p> + <p> + Into his voice there suffused the first ring of anger that she had ever + heard from him; cold and formidable. “That won’t do, Io. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I choose.” + </p> + <p> + “A child’s answer. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to be flattered?” She raised to his, eyes that + danced with an impish and perverse light. “Call it escape, if you + wish.” + </p> + <p> + “From me?” + </p> + <p> + “Or from myself. Wouldn’t you like to think that I’m + afraid of you?” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t like to think that you’re afraid of + anything.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not.” But her tone was that of the defiance which + seeks to encourage itself. + </p> + <p> + “I’d call it a desertion,” he said steadily. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! You’re secure. You need nothing but what you’ve + got. Power, reputation, position, success. What more can heart desire?” + she taunted. + </p> + <p> + “You.” + </p> + <p> + She quivered under the blunt word, but rallied to say lightly: “Six + months isn’t long. Though I may stretch it to a year.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s too long for endurance.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’ll do very well without me, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I? When am I to see you again before you go?” + </p> + <p> + Her raised eyebrows were like an affront. “Are we to see each other + again? Of course, it would be polite of you to come to the train.” + </p> + <p> + There was a controlled and dangerous gravity in his next question. “Io, + have we quarreled?” + </p> + <p> + “How absurd! Of course not.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—” + </p> + <p> + “If you knew how I dislike fruitless explanations!” + </p> + <p> + He rose at once. Io’s strong and beautiful hands, which had been + lying in her lap, suddenly interlocked, clenching close together. But her + face disclosed nothing. The virtuoso, who had been hopefully hovering in + the offing, bore down to take the vacated chair. He would have found the + lovely young Mrs. Eyre distrait and irresponsive had he not been too happy + babbling of his own triumphs to notice. + </p> + <p> + “Soon zey haf growed thin, zis crowd,” said the violinist, who + took pride in his mastery of idiom. “Zen, when zere remains but a + small few, I play for you. You sit <i>zere</i>, in ze leetle garden of + flowers.” He indicated the secluded seat near the stairway, where + she had sat with Ban on the occasion of her first visit to The House With + Three Eyes. “Not too far; not too near. From zere you shall not see; + but you shall think you hear ze stars make for you harmonies of ze high + places.” + </p> + <p> + Young Mackey, having arrived, commended himself to the condescending + master by a meekly worshipful attitude. Barely a score of people remained + in the great room. The word went about that they were in for one of those + occasional treats which made The House With Three Eyes unique. The + fortunate lingerers disposed themselves about the room. Io slipped into + the nook designated for her. Banneker was somewhere in the background; her + veiled glance could not discover where. The music began. + </p> + <p> + They played Tschaikowsky first, the tender and passionate “Melodie”; + then a lilting measure from Debussy’s “Faun,” followed + by a solemnly lovely Brahms arrangement devised by the virtuoso himself. + At the dying-out of the applause, the violinist addressed himself to the + nook where Io was no more than a vague, faërie figure to his eyes, misty + through interlaced bloom and leafage. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Madame, I play you somezing of a American. Ver’ + beautiful, it is. Not for violin. For voice, contralto. I sing it to you—on + ze G-string, which weep when it sing; weep for lost dreams. It is called + ‘Illusion,’ ze song.” + </p> + <p> + He raised his bow, and at the first bar Io’s heart gave a quick, + thick sob within her breast. It was the music which Camilla Van Arsdale + had played that night when winds and forest leaves murmured the overtones; + when earth and heaven were hushed to hear. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ban!” cried Io’s spirit. + </p> + <p> + Noiseless and swift, Banneker, answering the call, bent over her. She + whispered, softly, passionately, her lips hardly stirring the + melody-thrilled air. + </p> + <p> + “How could I hurt you so! I’m going because I must; because I + daren’t stay. You can understand, Ban!” + </p> + <p> + The music died. “Yes,” said Banneker. Then, “Don’t + go, Io!” + </p> + <p> + “I must. I’ll—I’ll see you before. When we’re + ourselves. We can’t talk now. Not with this terrible music in our + blood.” + </p> + <p> + She rose and went forward to thank the player with such a light in her + eyes and such a fervor in her words that he mentally added another to his + list of conquests. + </p> + <p> + The party broke up. After that magic music, people wanted to be out of the + light and the stir; to carry its pure passion forth into the dark places, + to cherish and dream it over again.... Banneker sat before the broad + fireplace in the laxity of a still grief. Io was going away from him. For + a six-month. For a year. For an eternity. Going away from him, bearing his + whole heart with her, as she had left him after the night on the river, + left him to the searing memory of that mad, sweet cleavage of her lips to + his, the passionate offer of her awakened womanhood in uttermost surrender + of life at the roaring gates of death.... + </p> + <p> + Footsteps, light, firm, unhesitant, approached across the broad floor from + the hallway. Banneker sat rigid, incredulous, afraid to stir, as the + sleeper fears to break the spell of a tenuous and lovely dream, until Io’s + voice spoke his name. He would have jumped to his feet, but the strong + pressure of her hands on his shoulders restrained him. + </p> + <p> + “No. Stay as you are.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you had gone,” he said thickly. + </p> + <p> + A great log toppled in the fireplace, showering its sparks in prodigal + display. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember our fire, on the river-bank?” said the voice + of the girl, Io, across the years. + </p> + <p> + “While I live.” + </p> + <p> + “Just you and I. Man and woman. Alone in the world. Sometimes I + think it has always been so with us.” + </p> + <p> + “We have no world of our own, Io,” he said sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Heresy, Ban; heresy! Of course we have. An inner world. If we could + forget—everything outside.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not good at forgetting.” + </p> + <p> + He felt her fingers, languid and tremulous, at his throat, her heart’s + strong throb against his shoulder as she bent, the sweet breath of her + whisper stirring the hair at his temple: + </p> + <p> + “Try, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + Her mouth closed down upon his, flower-sweet, petal-light, and was + withdrawn. She leaned back, gazing at him from half-closed, inscrutable + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “That’s for good-bye, Io?” With all his self-control, he + could not keep his voice steady. + </p> + <p> + “There have been too many good-byes between us,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + He lifted his head, attentive to a stir at the door, which immediately + passed. + </p> + <p> + “I thought that was Archie, come after you.” + </p> + <p> + “Archie isn’t coming.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll send for the car and take you home.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you understand, Ban? I’m not going home.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + Io Eyre was one of those women before whom Scandal seems to lose its teeth + if not its tongue. She had always assumed the superb attitude toward the + world in which she moved. “They say?—What do they say?—Let + them say!” might have been her device, too genuinely expressive of + her to be consciously contemptuous. Where another might have suffered in + reputation by constant companionship with a man as brilliant, as + conspicuous, as phenomenal of career as Errol Banneker, Io passed on her + chosen way, serene and scatheless. + </p> + <p> + Tongues wagged, indeed; whispers spread; that was inevitable. But to this + Io was impervious. When Banneker, troubled lest any breath should sully + her reputation who was herself unsullied, in his mind, would have + advocated caution, she refused to consent. + </p> + <p> + “Why should I skulk?” she said. “I’m not ashamed.” + </p> + <p> + So they met and lunched or dined at the most conspicuous restaurants, + defying Scandal, whereupon Scandal began to wonder whether, all things + considered, there were anything more to it than one of those flirtations + which, after a time of faithful adherence, become standardized into + respectability and a sort of tolerant recognition. What, after all, is + respectability but the brand of the formalist upon standardization? + </p> + <p> + With the distaste and effort which Ban always felt in mentioning her + husband’s name to Io, he asked her one day about any possible danger + from Eyre. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said with assurance. “I owe Del nothing. That + is understood between us.” + </p> + <p> + “But if the tittle-tattle that must be going the rounds should come + to his ears—” + </p> + <p> + “If the truth should come to his ears,” she replied + tranquilly, “it would make no difference.” + </p> + <p> + Ban looked at her, hesitant to be convinced. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; it’s so,” she asseverated, nodding, “After + his outbreak in Paris—it was on our wedding trip—I gave him a + choice. I would either divorce him, or I would hold myself absolutely free + of him so far as any claim, actual or moral, went. The one thing I + undertook was that I would never involve his name in any open scandal.” + </p> + <p> + “He hasn’t been so particular,” said Ban gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “Of late he has. Since I had Cousin Billy Enderby go to him about + the dancer. I won’t say he’s run absolutely straight since. + Poor Del! He can’t, I suppose. But, at least, he’s respected + the bargain to the extent of being prudent. I shall respect mine to the + same extent.” + </p> + <p> + “Io,” he burst out passionately, “there’s only one + thing in the world I really want; for you to be free of him absolutely.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “Oh, Ban’ Can’t you be content—with + me? I’ve told you I am free of him. I’m not really his wife.” + </p> + <p> + “No; you’re mine,” he declared with jealous intensity. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I’m yours.” Her voice trembled, thrilled. “You + don’t know yet how wholly I’m yours. Oh, it isn’t <i>that</i> + alone, Ban. But in spirit and thought. In the world of shadowed and lovely + things that we made for ourselves long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “But to have to endure this atmosphere of secrecy, of stealth, of + danger to you,” he fretted. “You could get your divorce.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I can’t. You don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I do understand,” he said gently. + </p> + <p> + “About Del?” She drew a quick breath. “How could you?” + </p> + <p> + “Wholly through an accident. A medical man, a slimy little reptile, + surprised his secret and inadvertently passed it on.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned forward to him from her corner of the settee, all courage and + truth. “I’m glad that you know, though I couldn’t tell + you, myself. You’ll see now that I couldn’t leave him to face + it alone.” + </p> + <p> + “No. You couldn’t. If you did, it wouldn’t be Io.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, and I love you for that, too,” she whispered, her voice + and eyes one caress to him. “I wonder how I ever made myself believe + that I could get over loving you! Now, I’ve got to pay for my + mistake. Ban, do you remember the ‘Babbling Babson’? The + imbecile who saw me from the train that day?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember every smallest thing in any way connected with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I love to hear you say that. It makes up for the bad times, in + between. The Babbler has turned up. He’s been living abroad for a + few years. I saw him at a tea last week.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he say anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He tried to be coy and facetious. I snubbed him soundly. + Perhaps it wasn’t wise.” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t it be?” + </p> + <p> + “Well he used to have the reputation of writing on the sly for The + Searchlight.” + </p> + <p> + “That sewer-sheet! You don’t think he’d dare do anything + of the sort about us? Why, what would he have to go on?” + </p> + <p> + “What does The Searchlight have to go on in most of its lies, and + hints, and innuendoes?” + </p> + <p> + “But, Io, even if it did publish—” + </p> + <p> + “It mustn’t,” she said. “Ban, if it did—it + would make it impossible for us to go on as we have been. Don’t you + see that it would?” + </p> + <p> + He turned sallow under his ruddy skin. “Then I’ll stop it, one + way or another. I’ll put the fear of God into that filthy old worm + that runs the blackmail shop. The first thing is to find out, though, + whether there’s anything in it. I did hear a hint....” He lost + himself in musings, trying to recall an occult remark which the obsequious + Ely Ives had made to him sometime before. “And I know where I can do + it,” he ended. + </p> + <p> + To go to Ives for anything was heartily distasteful to him. But this was a + necessity. He cautiously questioned the unofficial factotum of his + employer. Had Ives heard anything of a projected attack on him in The + Searchlight? Why, yes; Ives had (naturally, since it was he and not Babson + who had furnished the material). In fact, he had an underground wire into + the office of that weekly of spice and scurrility which might be tapped to + oblige a friend. + </p> + <p> + Banneker winced at the characterization, but confessed that he would be + appreciative of any information. In three days a galley proof of the + paragraph was in his hands. It confirmed his angriest fears. Publication + of it would smear Io’s name with scandal, and, by consequence, + direct the leering gaze of the world upon their love. + </p> + <p> + “What is this; blackmail?” he asked Ives. + </p> + <p> + “Might be.” + </p> + <p> + “Who wrote it?” + </p> + <p> + “Reads like the old buzzard’s own style.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go and see him,” said Banneker, half to himself. + </p> + <p> + “You can go, but I don’t think you’ll see him.” + Ives set forth in detail the venerable editor’s procedure as to + troublesome callers. It was specific and curious. Foreseeing that he would + probably have to fight with his opponent’s weapons, Banneker sought + out Russell Edmonds and asked for all the information regarding The + Searchlight and its proprietor-editor in the veteran’s possession. + Edmonds had a fund of it. + </p> + <p> + “But it won’t smoke him out,” he said. “That skunk + lives in a deep hole.” + </p> + <p> + “If I can’t smoke him out, I’ll blast him out,” + declared Banneker, and set himself to the composition of an editorial + which consumed the remainder of the working day. + </p> + <p> + With a typed copy in his pocket, he called, a little before noon, at the + office of The Searchlight and sent in his card to Major Bussey. The Major + was not in. When was he expected? As for that, there was no telling; he + was quite irregular. Very well, Mr. Banneker would wait. Oh, that was + quite useless; was it about something in the magazine; wouldn’t one + of the other editors do? Without awaiting an answer, the anemic and + shrewd-faced office girl who put the questions disappeared, and presently + returned, followed by a tailor-made woman of thirty-odd, with a delicate, + secret-keeping mouth and heavy-lidded, deep-hued eyes, altogether a + seductive figure. She smiled confidently up at Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve always wanted so much to meet you,” she disclosed, + giving him a quick, gentle hand pressure. “So has Major Bussey. Too + bad he’s out of town. Did you want to see him personally?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite personally.” Banneker returned her smile with one even + more friendly and confiding. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t I do? Come into my office, won’t you? I + represent him in some things.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in this one, I hope,” he replied, following her to an + inner room. “It is about a paragraph not yet published, which might + be misconstrued.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t think any one could possibly misconstrue it,” + she retorted, with a flash of wicked mirth. + </p> + <p> + “You know the paragraph to which I refer, then.” + </p> + <p> + “I wrote it.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker regarded her with grave and appreciative urbanity. All was going + precisely as Ely Ives had prognosticated; the denial of the presence of + the editor; the appearance of this alluring brunette as whipping-girl to + assume the burden of his offenses with the calm impunity of her sex and + charm. + </p> + <p> + “Congratulations,” he said. “It is very clever.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s quite true, isn’t it?” she returned + innocently. + </p> + <p> + “As authentic, let us say, as your authorship of the paragraph.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t think I wrote it? What object should I have in + trying to deceive you?” + </p> + <p> + “What, indeed! By the way, what is Major Bussey’s price?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Banneker!” Was it sheer delight in deviltry, or + amusement at his direct and unstrategic method that sparkled in her face. + “You surely don’t credit the silly stories of—well, + blackmail, about us!” + </p> + <p> + “It might be money,” he reflected. “But, on the whole, I + think it’s something else. Something he wants from The Patriot, + perhaps. Immunity? Would that be it? Not that I mean, necessarily, to + deal.” + </p> + <p> + “What is your proposition?” she asked confidentially. + </p> + <p> + “How can I advance one when I don’t know what your principal + wants?” + </p> + <p> + “The paragraph was written in good faith,” she asserted. + </p> + <p> + “And could be withdrawn in equal good faith?” + </p> + <p> + Her laugh was silvery clear. “Very possibly. Under proper + representations.” + </p> + <p> + “Then don’t you think I’d better deal direct with the + Major?” + </p> + <p> + She studied his face. “Yes,” she began, and instantly refuted + herself. “No. I don’t trust you. There’s trouble under + that smooth smile of yours.” + </p> + <p> + “But <i>you’re</i> not afraid of me, surely,” said + Banneker. He had found out one important point; her manner when she said + “Yes” indicated that the proprietor was in the building. Now + he continued: “Are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I think I am.” There was a little catch + in her breath. “I think you’d be dangerous to any woman.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker, his eyes fixed on hers, played for time and a further lead with + a banality. “You’re pleased to flatter me.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you pleased to be flattered?” she returned + provocatively. + </p> + <p> + He put his hand on her wrist. She swayed to him with a slow, facile + yielding. He caught her other wrist, and the grip of his two hands seemed + to bite into the bone. + </p> + <p> + “So you’re <i>that</i> kind, too, are you!” he sneered, + holding her eyes as cruelly as he had clutched her wrists. “Keep + quiet! Now, you’re to do as I tell you.” + </p> + <p> + (Ely Ives, in describing the watchwoman at the portals of scandal, had + told him that she was susceptible to a properly timed bluff. “A + woman she had slandered once stabbed her; since then you can get her nerve + by a quick attack. Treat her rough.”) + </p> + <p> + She stared at him, fearfully, half-hypnotized. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the door leading to Bussey’s office? Don’t + speak! Nod.” + </p> + <p> + Dumb and stricken, she obeyed. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going there. Don’t you dare make a movement or a + noise. If you do—I’ll come back.” + </p> + <p> + Shifting his grasp, he caught her up and with easy power tossed her upon a + broad divan. From its springy surface she shot up, as it seemed to him, + halfway to the ceiling, rigid and staring, a ludicrous simulacrum of a + glassy-eyed doll. He heard the protesting “ping!” and “berr-rr-rr” + of a broken spring as she fell back. The traverse of a narrow hallway and + a turn through a half-open door took him into the presence of bearded + benevolence making notes at a desk. + </p> + <p> + “How did you get here? And who the devil are you?” demanded + the guiding genius of The Searchlight, looking up irritably. He raised his + voice. “Con!” he called. + </p> + <p> + From a side room appeared a thick, heavy-shouldered man with a feral + countenance, who slouched aggressively forward, as the intruder announced + himself. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “Cheest!” hissed the thick bouncer in tones of dismay, and + stopped short. + </p> + <p> + Turning, Banneker recognized him as one of the policemen whom his evidence + had retired from the force in the wharf-gang investigation. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Banneker,” muttered the editor. His right hand moved + slowly, stealthily, toward a lower drawer. + </p> + <p> + “Cut it, Major!” implored Con in acute anguish. “Canche’ + see he’s gotche’ covered through his pocket!” + </p> + <p> + The stealthy hand returned to the sight of all men and fussed among some + papers on the desk-top. Major Bussey said peevishly: + </p> + <p> + “What do you want with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Kill that paragraph.” + </p> + <p> + “What par—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t fence with me,” struck in Banneker sharply. + “You know what one.” + </p> + <p> + Major Bussey swept his gaze around the room for help or inspiration. The + sight of the burly ex-policeman, stricken and shifting his weight from one + foot to the other, disconcerted him sadly; but he plucked up courage to + say: + </p> + <p> + “The facts are well authent—” + </p> + <p> + Again Banneker cut him short. “Facts! There isn’t the + semblance of a fact in the whole thing. Hints, slurs, innuendoes.” + </p> + <p> + “Libel does not exist when—” feebly began the editor, + and stopped because Banneker was laughing at him. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you read that,” said the visitor, contemptuously + tossing the typed script of his new-wrought editorial on the desk. “<i>That’s</i> + libellous, if you choose. But I don’t think you would sue.” + </p> + <p> + Major Bussey read the caption, a typical Banneker eye-catcher, “The + Rattlesnake Dies Out; But the Pen-Viper is Still With Us.” “I + don’t care to indulge myself with your literary efforts at present, + Mr. Banneker,” he said languidly. “Is this the answer to our + paragraph?” + </p> + <p> + “Only the beginning. I propose to drive you out of town and suppress + ‘The Searchlight.’” + </p> + <p> + “A fair challenge. I’ll accept it.” + </p> + <p> + “I was prepared to have you take that attitude.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Mr. Banneker; you could hardly expect to come here and + blackmail me by threats—” + </p> + <p> + “Now for my alternative,” proceeded the visitor calmly. + “You are proposing to publish a slur on the reputation of an + innocent woman who—” + </p> + <p> + “Innocent!” murmured the Major with malign relish. + </p> + <p> + “Look out, Major!” implored Con, the body-guard. “He’s + a killer, he is.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that I’m particularly afraid of you, after + all,” declared the exponent of The Searchlight, and Banneker felt a + twinge of dismay lest he might have derived, somewhence, an access of + courage. “A Wild West shooting is one thing, and cold-blooded, + premeditated murder is another. You’d go to the chair.” + </p> + <p> + “Cheerfully,” assented Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Bussey, lifting the typed sheets before him, began to read. Presently his + face flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Why, if you print this sort of thing, you’d have my office + mobbed,” he cried indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s possible.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s outrageous! And this—if this isn’t an + incitement to lynching—You wouldn’t dare publish this!” + </p> + <p> + “Try me.” + </p> + <p> + Major Bussey’s wizened and philanthropic face took on the cast of + careful thought. At length he spoke with the manner of an elder bestowing + wisdom upon youth. + </p> + <p> + “A controversy such as this would do nobody any good. I have always + been opposed to journalistic backbitings. Therefore we will let this + matter lie. I will kill the paragraph. Not that I’m afraid of your + threats; nor of your pen, for that matter. But in the best interests of + our common profession—” + </p> + <p> + “Good-day,” said Banneker, and walked out, leaving the Major + stranded upon the ebb tide of his platitudes. + </p> + <p> + Banneker retailed the episode to Edmonds, for his opinion. + </p> + <p> + “He’s afraid of your gun, a little,” pronounced the + expert; “and more of your pen. I think he’ll keep faith in + this.” + </p> + <p> + “As long as I hold over him the threat of The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And no longer?” + </p> + <p> + “No longer. It’s a vengeful kind of vermin, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “Pop, am I a common, ordinary blackmailer? Or am I not?” + </p> + <p> + The other shook his head, grayed by a quarter-century of struggles and + problems. “It’s a strange game, the newspaper game,” he + opined. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + All had worked out, in the matter of The Searchlight, quite as much to Mr. + Ely Ives’s satisfaction as to that of Banneker. From his boasted and + actual underground wire into that culture-bed of spiced sewage (at the + farther end of which was the facile brunette whom the visiting editor had + so harshly treated), he had learned the main details of the interview and + reported them to Mr. Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “Will Banneker now be good?” rhetorically queried Ives, + pursing up his small face into an expression of judicious appreciation. + “He <i>will</i> be good!” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal gave the subject his habitual calm and impersonal consideration. + “He hasn’t been lately,” he observed. “Several of + his editorials have had quite the air of challenge.” + </p> + <p> + “That was before he turned blackmailer. Blackmail,” + philosophized the astute Ives, “is a gun that you’ve got to + keep pointed all the time.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. So long as he has Bussey covered by the muzzle of The + Patriot, The Searchlight behaves itself.” + </p> + <p> + “It does. But if ever he laid down his gun, Bussey would make hash + of him and his lady-love.” + </p> + <p> + “What about her?” interrogated Marrineal. “Do you really + think—” His uplifted brows, sparse on his broad and candid + forehead, consummated the question. + </p> + <p> + For reply the factotum gave him a succinct if distorted version of the + romance in the desert. + </p> + <p> + “She dished him for Eyre,” he concluded, “and now she’s + dishing Eyre for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Bussey’s got all this?” inquired Marrineal, and upon + the other’s careless “I suppose so,” added, “It + must grind his soul not to be able to use it.” + </p> + <p> + “Or not to get paid for suppressing it,” grinned Ives. + </p> + <p> + “But does Banneker understand that it’s fear of his pen, and + not of being killed, that binds Bussey?” + </p> + <p> + Ives nodded. “I’ve taken care to rub that in. Told him of + other cases where the old Major was threatened with all sorts of + manhandling; scared out of his wits at first, but always got over it and + came back in The Searchlight, taking his chance of being killed. The old + vulture really isn’t a coward, though he’s a wary bird.” + </p> + <p> + “Would Banneker really kill him, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t insure his life for five cents,” returned + the other with conviction. “Your editor is crazy-mad over this Mrs. + Eyre. So there you have him delivered, shorn and helpless, and Delilah + doesn’t even suspect that she’s acting as our agent.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal’s eyes fixed themselves in a lifeless sort of stare upon a + far corner of the ceiling. Recognizing this as a sign of inward + cogitation, the vizier of his more private interests sat waiting. Without + changing the direction of his gaze, the proprietor indicated a check in + his ratiocination by saying incompletely: + </p> + <p> + “Now, if she divorced Eyre and married Banneker—” + </p> + <p> + Ives completed it for him. “That would spike The Searchlight’s + guns, you think? Perhaps. But if she were going to divorce Eyre, she’d + have done it long ago, wouldn’t she? I think she’ll wait. He + won’t last long.” + </p> + <p> + “Then our hold on Banneker, through his ability to intimidate The + Searchlight, depends on the life of a paretic.” + </p> + <p> + “Paretic is too strong a word—yet. But it comes to about that. + Except—he’ll want a lot of money to marry Io Eyre.” + </p> + <p> + “He wants a lot, anyway,” smiled Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “He’ll want more. She’s an expensive luxury.” + </p> + <p> + “He can get more. Any time when he chooses to handle The Patriot so + that it attracts instead of offends the big advertisers.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you put the screws on him now, Mr. Marrineal?” + smirked Ives with thin-lipped malignancy. + </p> + <p> + Marrineal frowned. His cold blood inclined him to be deliberate; the + ophidian habit, slow-moving until ready to strike. He saw no reason for + risking a venture which became safer the further it progressed. + Furthermore, he disliked direct, unsolicited advice. Ignoring Ives’s + remark he asked: + </p> + <p> + “How are his investments going?” + </p> + <p> + Ives grinned again. “Down. Who put him into United Thread? Do you + know, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Horace Vanney. He has been tipping it off quietly to the club lot. + Wants to get out from under, himself.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s one thing about it, though, that puzzles me. If he + took old Vanney’s tip to buy for a rise, why did he go after the + Sippiac Mills with those savage editorials? They’re mainly + responsible for the legislative investigation that knocked eight points + off of United Thread.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably to prove his editorial independence.” + </p> + <p> + “To whom? You?” + </p> + <p> + “To himself,” said Marrineal with an acumen quite above the + shrewdness of an Ives to grasp. + </p> + <p> + But the latter nodded intelligently, and remarked: “If he’s + money-crazy you’ve got him, anyway, sooner or later. And now that he’s + woman-crazy, too—” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll never understand just how sane Mr. Banneker is,” + broke in Marrineal coldly. He was a very sane man, himself. + </p> + <p> + “Well, a lot of the sane ones get stung on the Street,” + moralized Ives. “I guess the only way to beat that game is to get + crazy and take all the chances. Mr. Banneker stands to drop half a year’s + salary in U.T. alone unless there’s a turn.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal delivered another well-thought-out bit of wisdom. “If I’m + any judge, he wants a paper of his own. Well ... give me three years more + of him and he can have it. But I don’t think it’ll make much + headway against The Patriot, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Three years? Bussey and The Searchlight ought to hold him that + long. Unless, of course, he gets over his infatuation in the meantime.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case,” surmised Marrineal, eyeing him with distaste, + “I suppose you think that he would equally lose interest in + protecting her from The Searchlight.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what’s a woman to expect!” said Ives blandly, and + took his dismissal for the day. + </p> + <p> + It was only recently that Ives had taken to coming to The Patriot office. + No small interest and conjecture were aroused among the editorial staff as + to his exact status, stimulus to gossip being afforded by the rumor that + he had been, from Marrineal’s privy purse, shifted to the office + payroll. Russell Edmonds solved and imparted the secret to Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Ives? Oh, he’s the office sandbag.” + </p> + <p> + “Translate, Pop. I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s an invention of Marrineal’s. Very ingenious. It + was devised as a weapon against libel suits. Suppose some local + correspondent from Hohokus or Painted Post sends in a story on the + Honorable Aminadab Quince that looks to be O.K., but is actually full of + bad breaks. The Honorable Aminadab smells money in it and likes the smell. + Starts a libel suit. On the facts, he’s got us: the fellow that got + pickled and broke up the Methodist revival wasn’t Aminadab at all, + but his tough brother. If it gets into court we’re stung. Well, up + goes little Weaselfoot Ives to Hohokus. Sniffs around and spooks around + and is a good fellow at the hotel, and possibly spends a little money + where it’s most needed, and one day turns up at the Quince mansion. + ‘Senator, I represent The Patriot.’ ‘Don’t want to + see you at all. Talk to my lawyer.’ ‘But he might not + understand my errand. It relates to an indictment handed down in 1884 for + malversasion of school funds.’ ‘Young man, do you dare to + intimate—’ and so forth and so on; bluster and bluff and + threat. Says Ives, very cool: ‘Let me have your denial in writing + and we’ll print it opposite the certified copy of the indictment.’ + The old boy begins to whimper; ‘That’s outlawed. It was all + wrong, anyway.’ Ives is sympathetic, but stands pat. Drop the suit + and The Patriot will be considerate and settle the legal fees. Aminadab + drops, ten times out of ten. The sandbag has put him away.” + </p> + <p> + “But there must be an eleventh case where there’s nothing on + the man that’s suing.” + </p> + <p> + “Say a ninety-ninth. One libel suit in a hundred may be brought in + good faith. But we never settle until after Ives has done his little + prowl.” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds bad, Pop. But is it so bad, after all? We’ve got to + protect ourselves against a hold-up.” + </p> + <p> + “Dirty work, but somebody’s got to do it: ay—yes? I + agree with you. As a means of self-defense it is excusable. But the + operations of the sandbag have gone far beyond libel in Ives’s + hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Have they? To what extent?” + </p> + <p> + “Any. His little private detective agency—he’s got a + couple of our porch-climbing, keyhole reporters secretly assigned to him + at call for ‘special work’—looks after any man we’ve got + or are likely to have trouble with; advertisers who don’t come + across properly, city officials who play in with the other papers too + much, politicians—” + </p> + <p> + “But that’s rank blackmail!” exclaimed Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Carried far enough it is. So far it’s only private + information for the private archives.” + </p> + <p> + “Marrineal’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He and his private counsel, old Mark Stecklin, are the keepers + of them. Now, suppose Judge Enderby runs afoul of our interests, as he is + bound to do sooner or later. Little Weaselfoot gets on his trail—probably + is on it already—and he’ll spend a year if necessary watching, + waiting, sniffing out something that he can use as a threat or a bludgeon + or a bargain.” + </p> + <p> + “What quarrel have we got with Enderby?” inquired Banneker + with lively interest. + </p> + <p> + “None, now. But we’ll be after him hot and heavy within a + year.” + </p> + <p> + “Not the editorial page,” declared Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hope not. It would be rather a right-about, wouldn’t + it? But Marrineal isn’t afraid of a right-about. You know his creed + as to his readers: ‘The public never remembers.’ Of course, + you realize what Marrineal is after, politically.” + </p> + <p> + “No. He’s never said a word to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor to me. But others have. The mayoralty.” + </p> + <p> + “For himself?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. He’s quietly building up his machine.” + </p> + <p> + “But Laird will run for reelection.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll knife Laird.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s true Laird hasn’t treated us very well, in the + matter of backing our policies,” admitted Banneker thoughtfully. + “The Combined Street Railway franchise, for instance.” + </p> + <p> + “He was right in that and you were wrong, Ban. He had to follow the + comptroller there.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that where our split with Enderby is going to come? Over the + election?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Enderby is the brains and character back of the Laird + administration. He represents the clean government crowd, with its + financial power.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker stirred fretfully in his chair. “Damn it!” he + growled. “I wish we could run this paper <i>as</i> a newspaper and + not as a chestnut rake.” + </p> + <p> + “How sweet and simple life would be!” mocked the veteran. + “Still, you know, if you’re going to use The Patriot as a + blunderbuss to point at the heads of your own enemies, you can’t + blame the owner if he—” + </p> + <p> + “You think Marrineal knows?” interposed Banneker sharply. + </p> + <p> + “About The Searchlight matter? You can bet on one thing, Ban. + Everything that Ely Ives knows, Tertius Marrineal knows. So far as Ives + thinks it advisable for him to know, that is. Over and above which Tertius + is no fool, himself. You may have noticed that.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s bothered me from time to time,” admitted the other + dryly. + </p> + <p> + “It’ll bother both of us more, presently,” prophesied + Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ve been playing direct into Marrineal’s hands in + attacking Laird on the franchise matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Keep on.” + </p> + <p> + “Strange advice from you, Pop. You think my position on that is + wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “What of that? You think it’s right. Therefore, go ahead. Why + quit a line of policy just because it obliges your employes? Don’t + be over-conscientious, son.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve suspected for some time that the political news was + being adroitly manipulated against the administration. Has Marrineal tried + to ring you in on that?” + </p> + <p> + “No; and he won’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “He knows that, in the main, I’m a Laird man. Laird is giving + us what we asked for, an honest administration.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose, when Marrineal develops his plans, he comes to you, which + would be his natural course, to handle the news end of the anti-Laird + campaign. What would you do?” + </p> + <p> + “Quit.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker sighed. “It’s so easy for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so easy as you think, son. Even though there’s a lot of + stuff being put over in the news columns that makes me sore and sick. + Marrineal’s little theory of using news as a lever is being put into + practice pretty widely. Also we’re selling it.” + </p> + <p> + “Selling our news columns?” + </p> + <p> + “Some of ’em. For advertising. You’re well out of any + responsibility for that department. I’d resign to-morrow if it weren’t + for the fact that Marrineal still wants to cocker up the labor crowd for + his political purposes, and so gives me a free hand in my own special + line. By the way, he’s got the Veridian matter all nicely smoothed + out. Oh, my, yes! Fired the general manager, put in all sorts of reforms, + recognized the union, the whole programme! That’s to spike + McClintick’s guns if he tries to trot out Veridian again as proof + that Marrineal is, at heart, anti-labor.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s anti-anything that’s anti-Marrineal, and + pro-anything that’s pro-Marrineal. Haven’t you measured him + yet? All policy, no principle; there’s Mr. Tertius Marrineal for + you.... Ban, it’s really you that holds me to this shop.” + Through convolutions of smoke from his tiny pipe, the old stager regarded + the young star of journalism with a quaint and placid affection. “Whatever + rotten stuff is going on in the business and news department, your page + goes straight and speaks clear.... I wonder how long Marrineal will stand + for it ... I wonder what he intends for the next campaign.” + </p> + <p> + “If my proprietor runs for office, I can’t very well not + support him,” said Banneker, troubled. + </p> + <p> + “Not very well. The pinch will come as to what you’re going to + do about Laird. According to my private information, he’s coming + back at The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “For my editorials on the Combined franchise?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly. He’s too straight to resent honest criticism. No; for + some of the crooked stuff that we’re running in our political news. + Besides, some suspicious and informed soul in the administration has read + between our political lines, and got a peep of the aspiring Tertius + girding himself for contest. Result, the city advertising is to be taken + from The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + It needed no more than a mechanical reckoning of percentages to tell + Banneker that this implied a serious diminution of his own income. + Further, such a procedure would be in effect a repudiation of The Patriot + and its editorial support. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a rotten deal!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “No. Just politics. Justifiable, too, I should say, as politics go. + I doubt whether Laird would do it of his own motion; he plays a higher + game than that. But it isn’t strictly within his province either to + effect or prevent. Anyhow, it’s going to be done.” + </p> + <p> + “If he wants to fight us—” began Banneker with gloom in + his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t want to fight anybody,” cut in the expert. + “He wants to be mayor and run the city for what seems to him the + city’s best good. If he thought Marrineal would carry on his work as + mayor, I doubt if he’d oppose him. But our shrewd old friend, + Enderby, isn’t of that mind. Enderby understands Marrineal. He’ll + fight to the finish.” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds left his friend in a glum perturbation of mind. Enderby understood + Marrineal, did he? Banneker wished that he himself did. If he could have + come to grips with his employer, he would at least have known now where to + take his stand. But Marrineal was elusive. No, not even elusive; + quiescent. He waited. + </p> + <p> + As time passed, Banneker’s editorial and personal involvements grew + more complex. At what moment might a pressure from above close down on his + pen, and with what demand? How should he act in the crisis thus forced, at + Marrineal’s slow pleasure? Take Edmonds’s Gordian recourse; + resign? But he was on the verge of debt. His investments had gone badly; + he prided himself on the thought that it was partly through his own + immovable uprightness. Now, this threat to his badly needed percentages! + Surely The Patriot ought to be making a greater profit than it showed, on + its steadily waxing circulation. Why had he ever let himself be wrenched + from his first and impregnable system of a straight payment on increase of + circulation? Would it be possible to force Marrineal back into that + agreement? No income was too great, surely, to recompense for such trouble + of soul as The Patriot inflicted upon its editorial mouthpiece.... Through + the murk of thoughts shot, golden-rayed, the vision of Io. + </p> + <p> + No world could be other than glorious in which she lived and loved him and + was his. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + Sheltered beneath the powerful pen of Banneker, his idyll, fulfilled, + lengthened out over radiant months. Io was to him all that dreams had ever + promised or portrayed. Their association, flowering to the full amidst the + rush and turmoil of the city, was the antithesis to its budding in the + desert peace. To see the more of his mistress, Banneker became an active + participant in that class of social functions which get themselves + chronicled in the papers. Wise in her day and her protective instinct of + love, Io pointed out that the more he was identified with her set, the + less occasion would there be for comment upon their being seen together. + And they were seen together much. + </p> + <p> + She lunched with him at his downtown club, dined with him at Sherry’s, + met him at The Retreat and was driven back home in his car, sometimes with + Archie Densmore for a third, not infrequently alone. Considerate hostesses + seated them next each other at dinners: it was deemed an evidence of being + “in the know” thus to accommodate them. The openness of their + intimacy went far to rob calumny of its sting. And Banneker’s + ingrained circumspection of the man trained in the open, applied to <i>les + convenances</i>, was a protection in itself. Moreover, there was in his + devotion, conspicuous though it was, an air of chivalry, a breath of + fragrance from a world of higher romance, which rendered women in + particular charitable of judgment toward the pair. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes in the late afternoon Banneker’s private numbered + telephone rang, and an impersonal voice delivered a formal message. And + that evening Banneker (called out of town, no matter how pressing an + engagement he might have had) sat in The House With Three Eyes, now + darkened of vision, thrilling and longing for her step in the dim side + passage. There was risk of disaster. But Io willed to take it; was proud + to take it for her lover. + </p> + <p> + Immersed in a happiness and a hope which vivified every motion of his + life, Banneker was nevertheless under a continuous strain of watchfulness; + the <i>qui vive</i> of the knight who guards his lady with leveled lance + from a never-ceasing threat. At the point of his weapon cowered and + crouched the dragon of The Searchlight, with envenomed fangs of scandal. + </p> + <p> + As the months rounded out to a year, he grew, not less careful, indeed, + but more confident. Eyre had quietly dropped out of the world. Hunting big + game in some wild corner of Nowhere, said rumor. + </p> + <p> + Io had revealed to Banneker the truth; her husband was in a sanitarium not + far from Philadelphia. As she told him, her eyes were dim. Swift, with the + apprehension of the lover to read the loved one’s face, she saw a + smothered jealousy in his. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but you must pity him, too! He has been so game.” + </p> + <p> + “Has been?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. This is nearly the end. I shall go down there to be near him.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a long way, Philadelphia,” he said moodily. + </p> + <p> + “What a child! Two hours in your car from The Retreat.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I may come down?” + </p> + <p> + “May? You must!” + </p> + <p> + He was still unappeased. “But you’ll be very far away from me + most of the time.” + </p> + <p> + She gleamed on him, her face all joyous for his incessant want of her. + “Stupid! We shall see almost as much of each other as before. I’ll + be coming over to New York two or three times a week.” + </p> + <p> + Wherewith, and a promised daily telephone call, he must be content. + </p> + <p> + Not at that meeting did he broach the subject nearest his heart. He felt + that he must give Io time to adjust herself to the new-developed status of + her husband, as of one already passed out of the world. A fortnight later + he spoke out. He had gone down to The Retreat for the week-end and she had + come up from Philadelphia to meet him, for dinner. He found her in a + secluded alcove off the main dining-porch, alone. She rose and came to + him, after that one swift, sweet, precautionary glance about her with + which a woman in love assures herself of safety before she gives her lips; + tender and passionate to the yearning need of her that sprang in his face. + </p> + <p> + “Ban, I’ve been undergoing a solemn preachment.” + </p> + <p> + “From whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Archie.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Densmore here?” + </p> + <p> + “No; he came over to Philadelphia to deliver it.” + </p> + <p> + “About us?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “Don’t take it so gloomily. It was to be expected.” + </p> + <p> + He frowned. “It’s on my mind all the time; the danger to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you end it?” she said softly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Too confident to misconstrue his reply, she let her hand fall on his, + waiting. + </p> + <p> + “Io, how long will it be, with Eyre? Before—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh; that!” The brilliance faded from her eager loveliness. + “I don’t know. Perhaps a year. He suffers abominably, poor + fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “And after—after <i>that</i>, how long before you can marry + me?” + </p> + <p> + She twinkled at him mischievously. “So, after all these years, my + lover makes me an offer of marriage. Why didn’t you ask me at + Manzanita?” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! Would it possibly—” + </p> + <p> + “No; no! I shouldn’t have said it. I was teasing.” + </p> + <p> + “You know that there’s never been a moment when the one thing + worth living and fighting and striving for wasn’t you.” + </p> + <p> + “And success?” she taunted, but with tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “Another name for you. I wanted it only as the reflex of your wish + for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Even when I’d left you?” + </p> + <p> + “Even when you’d left me.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Ban!” she breathed, and for a moment her fingers + fluttered at his cheek. “Have I made it up to you?” + </p> + <p> + He bent over the long, low chair in which she half reclined. “A + thousand times! Every day that I see you; every day that I think of you; + with the lightest touch of your hand; the sound of your voice; the turn of + your face toward me. I’m jealous of it and fearful of it. Can you + wonder that I live in a torment of dread lest something happen to bring it + all to ruin?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “Nothing could. Unless—No. I won’t + say it. I want you to want to marry me, Ban. But—I wonder.” + </p> + <p> + As they talked, the little light of late afternoon had dwindled, until in + their nook they could see each other only as vague forms. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t there a table-lamp there?” she asked. “Turn + it on.” + </p> + <p> + He found and pulled the chain. The glow, softly shaded, irradiated Io’s + lineaments, showing her thoughtful, somber, even a little apprehensive. + She lifted the shade and turned it to throw the direct rays upon Banneker. + He blinked. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind?” she asked softly. Even more softly, she added, + “Do you remember?” + </p> + <p> + His mind veered back across the years, full of struggle, of triumph, of + emptiness, of fulfillment, to a night in another world; a world of dreams, + magic associations, high and peaceful ambitions, into which had broken a + voice and an appeal from the darkness. He had turned the light upon + himself then that she might see him for what he was and have no fear. So + he held it now, lifting it above his forehead. Hypnotized by the + compulsion of memory, she said, as she had said to the unknown helper in + the desert shack: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know you. Do I?” + </p> + <p> + “Io!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I didn’t mean to say that. It came back to me, Ban. + Perhaps it’s true. <i>Do</i> I know you?” + </p> + <p> + As in the long ago he answered her: “Are you afraid of me?” + </p> + <p> + “Of everything. Of the future. Of what I don’t know in you.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing of me that you don’t know,” he + averred. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t there?” She was infinitely wistful; avid of + reassurance. Before he could answer she continued: “That night in + the rain when I first saw you, under the flash, as I see you now—Ban, + dear, how little you’ve changed, how wonderfully little, to the eye!—the + instant I saw you, I trusted you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you trust me now?” he asked for the delight of hearing her + declare it. + </p> + <p> + Instead he heard, incredulously, the doubt in her tone. “Do I? I + want to—so much! I did then. At first sight.” + </p> + <p> + He set down the lamp. She could hear him breathing quick and stressfully. + He did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “At first sight,” she repeated. “And—I think—I + loved you from that minute. Though of course I didn’t know. Not for + days. Then, when I’d gone, I found what I’d never dreamed of; + how much I could love.” + </p> + <p> + “And now?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, more than then!” The low cry leapt from her lips. “A + thousand times more.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t trust me?” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t I, Ban?” she pleaded. “What have you + done? How have you changed?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “Yet you’ve given me your love. Do you + trust yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered with a startling quietude of certainty. + “In that I do. Absolutely.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll chance the rest. You’re upset to-night, aren’t + you, Io? You’ve let your imagination run away with you.” + </p> + <p> + “This isn’t a new thing to me. It began—I don’t + know when it began. Yes; I do. Before I ever knew or thought of you. Oh, + long before! When I was no more than a baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Rede me your riddle, love,” he said lightly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s so silly. You mustn’t laugh; no, you wouldn’t + laugh. But you mustn’t be angry with me for being a fool. Childhood + impressions are terribly lasting things, Ban.... Yes, I’m going to + tell you. It was a nurse I had when I was only four, I think; such a + pretty, dainty Irish creature, the pink-and-black type. She used to cry + over me and say—I don’t suppose she thought I would ever + understand or remember—‘Beware the brown-eyed boys, darlin’. + False an’ foul they are, the brown ones. They take a girl’s + poor heart an’ witch it away an’ twitch it away, an’ + toss it back all crushed an’ spoilt.’ Then she would hug me + and sob. She left soon after; but the warning has haunted me like a + superstition.... Could you kiss it away, Ban? Tell me I’m a little + fool!” + </p> + <p> + Approaching footsteps broke in upon them. The square bulk of Jim Maitland + appeared in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “What ho! you two. Ban, you’re scampin’ your polo + practice shamefully. You’ll be crabbin’ the team if you don’t + look out. Dinin’ here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Io. “Is Marie down?” + </p> + <p> + “Comin’ presently. How about a couple of rubbers after dinner?” + </p> + <p> + To assent seemed the part of tact. Io and Ban went to their corner table, + reserved for three, the third, Archie Densmore, being a prudent fiction. + People drifted over to them, chatted awhile, were carried on and away by + uncharted but normal social currents. It was a tribute to the accepted + status between them that no one settled into the third chair. The Retreat + is the dwelling-place of tact. All the conversationalists having come and + gone, Io reverted over the coffee to the talk of their hearts. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t expect you to understand me, can I? Especially as I + don’t understand myself. Don’t sulk, Ban, dearest. You’re + so un-pretty when you pout.” + </p> + <p> + He refused to accept the change to a lighter tone. “I understand + this, Io; that you have begun unaccountably to mistrust me. That hurts.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to hurt you. I’d rather hurt myself; a + thousand times rather. Oh, I will marry you, of course, when the time + comes! And yet—” + </p> + <p> + “Yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it strange, that deep-seated misgiving! I suppose it’s + my woman’s dread of any change. It’s been so perfect between + us, Ban.” Her speech dropped to its lowest breath of pure music: + </p> + <p> + “‘This test for love:—in every kiss, sealed fast To feel + the first kiss and forebode the last’— + </p> + <p> + So it has been with us; hasn’t it, my lover?” + </p> + <p> + “So it shall always be,” he answered, low and deep. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes dreamed. “How could any man feel what he put in those + lines?” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Some woman taught him,” said Banneker. + </p> + <p> + She threw him a fairy kiss. “Why haven’t we ‘The Voices’ + here! You should read to me.... Do you ever wish we were back in the + desert?” + </p> + <p> + “We shall be, some day.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered a little, involuntarily. “There’s a sense of + recall, isn’t there! Do you still love it?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the beginning of the Road to Happiness,” he said. + “The place where I first saw you.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t care for many things, though, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “Not many. Only two, vitally. You and the paper.” + </p> + <p> + She made a curious reply pregnant of meanings which were to come back upon + him afterward. “I shan’t be jealous of that. Not as long as + you’re true to it. But I don’t think you care for The Patriot, + for itself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t I!” + </p> + <p> + “If you do, it’s only because it’s part of you; your + voice; your power. Because it belongs to you. I wonder if you love me + mostly for the same reason.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, the reverse reason. Because I belong so entirely to you that + nothing outside really matters except as it contributes to you. Can’t + you realize and believe?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I shouldn’t be jealous of the paper,” she mused, + ignoring his appeal. Then, with a sudden transition: “I like your + Russell Edmonds. Am I wrong or is there a kind of nobility of mind in him?” + </p> + <p> + “Of mind and soul. You would be the one to see it. + </p> + <p> + ‘.............the nobleness that lies Sleeping but never dead in other + men, Will rise in majesty to meet thine own’”— + </p> + <p> + he quoted, smiling into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever talk over your editorials with him?” + </p> + <p> + “Often. He’s my main and only reliance, politically.” + </p> + <p> + “Only politically? Does he ever comment on other editorials? The one + on Harvey Wheelwright, for instance?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker was faintly surprised. “No. Why should he? Did you discuss + that with him?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed not! I wouldn’t discuss that particular editorial with + any one but you.” + </p> + <p> + He moved uneasily. “Aren’t you attaching undue importance to a + very trivial subject? You know that was half a joke, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it?” she murmured. “Probably I take it too + seriously. But—but Harvey Wheelwright came into one of our early + talks, almost our first about real things. When I began to discover you; + when ‘The Voices’ first sang to us. And he wasn’t one of + the Voices, exactly, was he?” + </p> + <p> + “He? He’s a bray! But neither was Sears-Roebuck one of the + Voices. Yet you liked my editorial on that.” + </p> + <p> + “I adored it! You believed what you were writing. So you made it + beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing could make Harvey Wheelwright beautiful. But, at least, you’ll + admit I made him—well, appetizing.” His face took on a shade. + “Love’s labor lost, too,” he added. “We never did + run the Wheelwright serial, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because the infernal idiot had to go and divorce a perfectly + respectable, if plain and middle-aged wife, in order to marry a quite + scandalous Chicago society flapper.” + </p> + <p> + “What connection has that with the serial?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you see? Wheelwright is the arch-deacon of the eternal + proprieties and pieties. Purity of morals. Hearth and home. Faithful unto + death, and so on. Under that sign he conquers—a million pious and + snuffy readers, per book. Well, when he gets himself spread in the + Amalgamated Wire dispatches, by a quick divorce and a hair-trigger + marriage, puff goes his piety—and his hold on his readers. We just + quietly dropped him.” + </p> + <p> + “But his serial was just as good or as bad as before, wasn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not! Not for our purposes. He was a dead wolf with his + sheep’s wool all smeared and spotted. You’ll never quite + understand the newspaper game, I’m afraid, lady of my heart.” + </p> + <p> + “How brown your eyes are, Ban!” said Io. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + Politics began to bubble in The Patriot office with promise of hotter + upheavals to come. The Laird administration had shown its intention of + diverting city advertising, and Marrineal had countered in the news + columns by several minor but not ineffective exposures of weak spots in + the city government. Banneker, who had on the whole continued to support + the administration in its reform plans, decided that a talk with Willis + Enderby might clarify the position and accordingly made an evening + appointment with him at his house. Judge Enderby opened proceedings with + typical directness of attack. + </p> + <p> + “When are <i>you</i> going to turn on us, Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a cheerful question,” retorted the young man + good-humoredly, “considering that it is you people who have gone + back on The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “Were any pledges made on our part?” queried Enderby. + </p> + <p> + Banneker replied with some spirit: “Am I talking with counsel under + retainer or with a personal friend?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right. I apologize,” said the imperturbable Enderby. + “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t the money loss that counts, so much as the slap in + the face to the paper. It’s a direct repudiation. You must realize + that.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not wholly a novice in politics.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am, practically.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so much that you can’t see what Marrineal would be at.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Marrineal has not confided in me.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor in me,” stated the lawyer grimly. “I don’t + need his confidence to perceive his plans.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you believe them to be?” + </p> + <p> + No glimmer of a smile appeared on the visage of Judge Enderby as he + countered, “Am I talking with a representative of The Patriot or—” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” laughed Banneker. “<i>Touché!</i> Assume + that Marrineal has political ambitions. Surely that lies within the bounds + of propriety.” + </p> + <p> + “Depends on how he pushes them. Do you read The Patriot, Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + The editor of The Patriot smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Do you approve its methods in, let us say, the political articles?” + </p> + <p> + “I have no control over the news columns.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t answer my question,” said the lawyer with a fine + effect of patience, long-suffering and milky-mild, “if it in any way + discommodes you.” + </p> + <p> + “It all comes to this,” disclosed Banneker. “If the + mayor turns on us, we can’t lie down under the whip and we won’t. + We’ll hit back.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Editorially, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand. At least the editorials will be a direct method of + attack, and an honest one. I may assume that much?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever seen anything in the editorial columns of The Patriot + that would lead you to assume otherwise?” + </p> + <p> + “Answering categorically I would have to say ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + “Answer as you please.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will say,” observed the other, speaking with marked + deliberation, “that on one occasion I have failed to see matter + which I thought might logically appear there and the absence of which + afforded me food for thought. Do you know Peter McClintick?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Has he been talking to you about the Veridian killings?” + </p> + <p> + Enderby nodded. “One could not but contrast your silence on that + subject with your eloquence against the Steel Trust persecutions, + consisting, if I recall, in putting agitators in jail for six months. + Quite wrongly, I concede. But hardly as bad as shooting them down as they + sleep, and their families with them.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what you would have done in my place, then.” Banneker + stated the case of the Veridian Mills strike simply and fairly. “Could + I turn the columns of his own paper on Marrineal for what was not even his + fault?” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible. Absurd, as well,” acknowledged the other + </p> + <p> + “Can you even criticize Marrineal?” + </p> + <p> + The jurist reared his gaunt, straight form up from his chair and walked + across to the window, peering out into the darkness before he answered + with a sort of restrained passion. + </p> + <p> + “God o’ mercies, Banneker! Do you ask me to judge other men’s + acts, outside the rules of law? Haven’t I enough problems in + reconciling my own conscience to conserving the interests of my clients, + as I must, in honor, do? No; no! Don’t expect me to judge, in any + matter of greater responsibilities. I’m answerable to a small + handful of people. You—your Patriot is answerable to a million. + Everything you print, everything you withhold, may have incalculable + influence on the minds of men. You can corrupt or enlighten them with a + word. Think of it! Under such a weight Atlas would be crushed. There was a + time long ago—about the time when you were born—when I thought + that I might be a journalist; thought it lightly. To-day, knowing what I + know, I should be terrified to attempt it for a week, a day! I tell you, + Banneker, one who moulds the people’s beliefs ought to have the + wisdom of a sage and the inspiration of a prophet and the selflessness of + a martyr.” + </p> + <p> + A somber depression veiled Banneker. “One must have the sense of + authority, too,” he said at length with an effort. “If that is + undermined, you lose everything. I’ll fight for that.” + </p> + <p> + With an abrupt motion his host reached up and drew the window shade, as it + might be to shut out a darkness too deep for human penetration. + </p> + <p> + “What does your public care about whether The Patriot loses the city + advertising; or even know about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the public. But the other newspapers. They’ll know, and + they’ll use it against us.... Enderby, we can beat Bob Laird for + reelection.” + </p> + <p> + “If that’s a threat,” returned the lawyer equably, + “it is made to the wrong person. I couldn’t control Laird in + this matter if I wanted to. He’s an obstinate young mule—for + which Heaven be praised!” + </p> + <p> + “No; it isn’t a threat. It’s a declaration of war, if + you like.” + </p> + <p> + “You think you can beat us? With Marrineal?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Marrineal isn’t an avowed candidate, is he?” evaded + Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “I fancy that you’ll see some rapidly evolving activity in + that quarter.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it true that Laird has developed social tendencies, and is using + the mayoralty to climb?” + </p> + <p> + “A silly story of his enemies,” answered Enderby + contemptuously. “Just the sort of thing that Marrineal would + naturally get hold of and use. In so far as Laird has any social + relations, they are and always have been with that element which your + society reporters call ‘the most exclusive circles,’ because + that is where he belongs by birth and association.” + </p> + <p> + “Russell Edmonds says that social ambition is the only road on which + one climbs painfully downhill.” + </p> + <p> + The other paid the tribute of a controlled smile to this. “Edmonds? + A Socialist. He has a gnarled mind. Good, hard-grained wood, though. I + suppose no man more thoroughly hates and despises what I represent—or + what he thinks I represent, the conservative force of moneyed power—than + he does. Yet in any question of professional principles, I would trust him + far; yes, and of professional perceptions, too, I think; which is more + difficult. A crack-brained sage; but wise. Have you talked over the Laird + matter with him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He’s for Laird.” + </p> + <p> + “Stick to Edmonds, Banneker. You can’t find a better guide.” + </p> + <p> + There was desultory talk until the caller got up to go. As they shook + hands, Enderby said: + </p> + <p> + “Has any one been tracking you lately?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Not that I’ve noticed.” + </p> + <p> + “There was a fellow lurking suspiciously outside; heavy-set, dark + clothes, soft hat. I thought that he might be watching you.” + </p> + <p> + For a man of Banneker’s experience of the open, to detect the + cleverest of trailing was easy. Although this watcher was sly and careful + in his pursuit, which took him all the way to Chelsea Village, his every + move was clear to the quarry, until the door of The House With Three Eyes + closed upon its owner. Banneker went to bed very uneasy. On whose behoof + was he being shadowed? Should he warn Io?... In the morning there was no + trace of the man, nor, though Banneker trained every sharpened faculty to + watchfulness, did he see him again.... While he was mentally engrossed in + wholly alien considerations, the solution materialized out of nothing to + his inner vision. It was Willis Enderby who was being watched, and, as a + side issue, any caller upon him. That evening a taxi, occupied by a + leisurely young man in evening clothes, drove through East 68th Street, + where stood the Enderby house, dim, proud, and stiff. The taxi stopped + before a mansion not far away, and the young man addressed a heavy-bodied + individual who stood, with vacant face uplifted to the high moon, as if + about to bay it. Said the young man: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ives wishes you to report to him at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh?” ejaculated the other, lowering his gaze. + </p> + <p> + “At the usual place,” pursued the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Aw-right.” + </p> + <p> + His suspicions fully confirmed, Banneker drove away. It was now Ives’s + move, he remarked to himself, smiling. Or perhaps Marrineal’s. He + would wait. Within a few days he had his opportunity. Returning to his + office after luncheon, he found a penciled note from Ives on his desk, + notifying him that Miss Raleigh had called him on the ‘phone. + </p> + <p> + Inquiring for the useful Ives, Banneker learned that he was closeted with + Marrineal. Such conferences were regarded in the office as inviolable; but + Banneker was in uncompromising mood. He entered with no more of + preliminary than a knock. After giving his employer good-day he addressed + Ives. + </p> + <p> + “I found a note from you on my desk.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The message came half an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Through the office?” + </p> + <p> + “No. On your ‘phone.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you get into my room?” + </p> + <p> + “The door was open.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker reflected. This was possible, though usually he left his door + locked. He decided to accept the explanation. Later he had occasion to + revise it. + </p> + <p> + “Much obliged. By the way, on whose authority did you put a shadow + on Judge Enderby?” + </p> + <p> + “On mine,” interposed Marrineal. “Mr. Ives has full + discretion in these matters.” + </p> + <p> + “But what is the idea?” + </p> + <p> + Ives delivered himself of his pet theory. “They’ll all bear + watching. It may come in handy some day.” + </p> + <p> + “What may?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything we can get.” + </p> + <p> + “What on earth could any but an insane man expect to get on Enderby?” + contemptuously asked Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Shooting a covert look at his principal, Ives either received or assumed a + permission. “Well, there was some kind of an old scandal, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Was there?” Banneker’s voice was negligent. “That + would be hard to believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Hard to get hold of in any detail. I’ve dug some of it out + through my Searchlight connection. Very useful line, that.” + </p> + <p> + Ives ventured a direct look at Banneker, but diverted it from the cold + stare it encountered. + </p> + <p> + “Some woman scrape,” he explicated with an effort at airiness. + </p> + <p> + Banneker turned a humiliating back on him. “The Patriot is beginning + to get a bad name on Park Row for this sort of thing,” he informed + Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + “This isn’t a Patriot matter. It is private.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw!” exclaimed Banneker in disgust. “After all, it + doesn’t matter. You’ll have your trouble for your pains,” + he prophesied, and returned to ‘phone Betty Raleigh. + </p> + <p> + What had become of Banneker, Betty’s gay and pure-toned voice + demanded over the wire. Had he eschewed the theater and all its works for + good? Too busy? Was that a reason also for eschewing his friends? He’d + never meant to do that? Let him prove it then by coming up to see her.... + Yes; at once. Something special to be talked over. + </p> + <p> + It was a genuine surprise to Banneker to find that he had not seen the + actress for nearly two months. Certainly he had not specially missed her, + yet it was keenly pleasurable to be brought into contact again with that + restless, vital, outgiving personality. She looked tired and a little + dispirited and—for she was of that rare type in which weariness does + not dim, but rather qualifies and differentiates its beauty—quite as + lovely as he had ever seen her. The query which gave him his clue to her + special and immediate interest was: + </p> + <p> + “Why is Haslett leaving The Patriot?” Haslett was the Chicago + critic transplanted to take Gurney’s place. + </p> + <p> + “Is he? I didn’t know. You ought not to mourn his loss, Betty.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do. At least, I’m afraid I’m going to. Do you + know who the new critic is?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Do you? And how do you? Oh, I suppose I ought to understand + that, though,” he added, annoyed that so important a change should + have been kept secret from him. + </p> + <p> + With characteristic directness she replied, “You mean Tertius + Marrineal?” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all off.” + </p> + <p> + “Betty! Your engagement to him?” + </p> + <p> + “So far as there ever was any.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it really off? Or have you only quarreled?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I can’t imagine myself quarreling with Tertius. He’s + too impersonal. For the same reason, and others, I can’t see myself + marrying him.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must have considered it, for a time.” + </p> + <p> + “Not very profoundly. I don’t want to marry a newspaper. + Particularly such a newspaper as The Patriot. For that matter, I don’t + want to marry anybody, and I won’t!” + </p> + <p> + “That being disposed of, what’s the matter with The Patriot? + It’s been treating you with distinguished courtesy ever since + Marrineal took over charge.” + </p> + <p> + “It has. That’s part of his newspaperishness.” + </p> + <p> + “From our review of your new play I judge that it was written by the + shade of Shakespeare in collaboration with the ghost of Molière, and that + your acting in it combines all the genius of Rachel, Kean, Booth, Mrs. + Siddons, and the Divine Sarah.” + </p> + <p> + “This is no laughing matter,” she protested. “Have you + seen the play?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I’ll go to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t. It’s rotten.” + </p> + <p> + “Heavens!” he cried in mock dismay. “What does this + mean? Our most brilliant young—” + </p> + <p> + “And I’m as bad as the play—almost. The part doesn’t + fit me. It’s a fool part.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you quarreling with The Patriot because it has tempered justice + with mercy in your case?” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy? With slush. Slathering slush.” + </p> + <p> + “Come to my aid, Memory! Was it not a certain Miss Raleigh who + aforetime denounced the ruffian Gurney for that he vented his wit upon a + play in which she appeared. And now, because—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; it was. I’ve no use for the smart-aleck school of + criticism. But, at least, what Gurney wrote was his own. And Haslett, even + if he is an old grouch, was honest. You couldn’t buy their opinions + over the counter.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker frowned. “I think you’d better explain, Betty.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Gene Zucker?” + </p> + <p> + “Never heard of him.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a worm. A fat, wiggly, soft worm from Boston. But he’s + got an idea.” + </p> + <p> + “And that is?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you in a moment.” She leaned forward fixing + him with the honest clarity of her eyes. “Ban, if I tell you that I’m + really devoted to my art, that I believe in it as—as a mission, that + the theater is as big a thing to me as The Patriot is to you, you won’t + think me an affected little prig, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not, Betty. I know you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I think you do. But you don’t know your own paper. + Zucker’s big idea, which he sold to Tertius Marrineal together with + his precious self, is that the dramatic critic should be the same + identical person as the assistant advertising manager in charge of theater + advertising, and that Zucker should be both.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell!” snapped Banneker. “I beg your pardon, Betty.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t. I quite agree with you. Isn’t it complete and + perfect? Zucker gets his percentage of the advertising revenue which he + brings in from the theaters. Therefore, will he be kind to those + attractions which advertise liberally? And less kind to those which fail + to appreciate The Patriot as a medium? I know that he will! Pay your + dollar and get your puff. Dramatic criticism strictly up to date.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker looked at her searchingly. “Is that why you broke with + Marrineal, Betty?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly. No. This Zucker deal came afterward. But I think I had + begun to see what sort of principles Tertius represented. You and I aren’t + children, Ban: I can talk straight talk to you. Well, there’s + prostitution on the stage, of course. Not so much of it as outsiders + think, but more than enough. I’ve kept myself free of any contact + with it. That being so, I’m certainly not going to associate myself + with that sort of thing in another field. Ban, I’ve made the + management refuse Zucker admittance to the theater. And he gave the play a + wonderful send-off, as you know. Of course, Tertius would have him do + that.” + </p> + <p> + Rising, Banneker walked over and soberly shook the girl’s hand. + “Betty, you’re a fine and straight and big little person. I’m + proud to know you. And I’m ashamed of myself that I can do nothing. + Not now, anyway. Later, perhaps....” + </p> + <p> + “No, I suppose you can’t,” she said listlessly. “But + you’ll be interested in seeing how the Zucker system works out; a + half-page ad. in the Sunday edition gets a special signed and illustrated + feature article, a quarter-page only a column of ordinary press stuff. A + full page—I don’t know what he’ll offer for that. An + editorial by E.B. perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Betty!” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, Ban. I’m sick at heart over it all. Of course, I + know you wouldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + Going back in his car, Banneker reflected with profound distaste that the + plan upon which he was hired was not essentially different from the Zucker + scheme, in Marrineal’s intent. He, too, was—if Marrineal’s + idea worked out—to draw down a percentage varying in direct ratio to + his suppleness in accommodating his writings to “the best interests + of the paper.” He swore that he would see The Patriot and its + proprietor eternally damned before he would again alter jot or tittle of + his editorial expression with reference to any future benefit. + </p> + <p> + It did not take long for Mr. Zucker to manifest his presence to Banneker + through a line asking for an interview, written in a neat, small hand upon + a card reading: + </p> + <p> + <i>The Patriot—Special Theatrical Features E. Zucker, Representative</i>. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Zucker, being sent for, materialized as a buoyant little person, + richly ornamented with his own initials in such carefully chosen locations + as his belt-buckle, his cane, and his cigarettes. He was, he explained, + injecting some new and profitable novelties into the department of + dramatic criticism. + </p> + <p> + “Just a moment,” quoth Banneker. “I thought that Allan + Haslett had come on from Chicago to be our dramatic critic.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he and the business office didn’t hit it off very well,” + said little Zucker carelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! And do you hit it off pretty well with the business office?” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally. It was Mr. Haring brought me on here; I’m a + special departmental manager in the advertising department.” + </p> + <p> + “Your card would hardly give the impression. It suggests the news + rather than the advertising side.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m both,” stated Mr. Zucker, brightly beaming. “I + handle the criticism and the feature stuff on salary, and solicit the + advertising, on a percentage. It works out fine.” + </p> + <p> + “So one might suppose.” Banneker looked at him hard. “The + idea being, if I get it correctly, that a manager who gives you a good, + big line of advertising can rely on considerate treatment in the dramatic + column of The Patriot.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there’s no bargain to that effect. That wouldn’t + be classy for a big paper like ours,” replied the high-if somewhat + naïve-minded Mr. Zucker. “Of course, the managers understand that + one good turn deserves another, and I ain’t the man to roast a + friend that helps me out. I started the scheme in Boston and doubled the + theater revenue of my paper there in a year.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m immensely interested,” confessed Banneker. “But + what is your idea in coming to me about this?” + </p> + <p> + “Big stuff, Mr. Banneker,” answered the earnest Zucker. He + laid a jeweled hand upon the other’s knee, and removed it because + some vestige of self-protective instinct warned him that that was not the + proper place for it. “You may have noticed that we’ve been + running a lot of special theater stuff in the Sunday.” Banneker + nodded. “That’s all per schedule, as worked out by me. An + eighth of a page ad. gets an article. A quarter page ad. gets a signed + special by me. Haffa page wins a grand little send-off by Bess Breezely + with her own illustrations. Now, I’m figuring on full pages. If I + could go to a manager and say: ‘Gimme a full-page ad. for next + Sunday and I’ll see if I can’t get Mr. Banneker to do an + editorial on the show’—if I could say that, why, nothin’ + to it! Nothin’ at-tall! Of course,” he added ruminatively, + “I’d have to pick the shows pretty careful.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’d like to write the editorials, too,” + suggested Banneker with baleful mildness. + </p> + <p> + “I thought of that,” admitted the other. “But I don’t + know as I could get the swing of your style. You certainly got a style, + Mr. Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what do you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, this. I’ll look over next Sunday’s advertising, + particularly the large ads., and if there is a good subject in any of the + shows, I’ll try to do something about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine!” enthused the unsuspecting pioneer of business-dramatic + criticism. “It’s a pleasure to work with a gentleman like you, + Mr. Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + Withdrawing, even more pleased with himself than was his wont, Mr. Zucker + confided to Haring that the latter was totally mistaken in attributing a + stand-offish attitude to Banneker. Why, you couldn’t ask for a more + reasonable man. Saw the point at once. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you go making any fool promises on the strength of what + Banneker said to you,” commented Haring. + </p> + <p> + With malign relish, Banneker looked up in the Sunday advertising the + leading theater display, went to the musical comedy there exploited, and + presently devoted a column to giving it a terrific and only half-merited + slashing for vapid and gratuitous indecency. The play, which had been + going none too well, straightway sold out a fortnight in advance, thereby + attesting the power of the press as well as the appeal of pruriency to an + eager and jaded public. Zucker left a note on the editorial desk warmly + thanking his confrère for this evidence of coöperation. + </p> + <p> + Life was practicing its lesser ironies upon Banneker whilst maturing its + greater ones. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + In the regular course of political events, Laird was renominated on a + fusion ticket. Thereupon the old ring, which had so long battened on the + corruption or local government, put up a sleek and presentable figurehead. + Marrineal nominated himself amidst the Homeric laughter of the + professional politicians. How’s he goin’ to get anywhere, they + demanded with great relish of the joke, when he ain’t got any + organization at-tall! Presently the savor oozed out of that joke. + Marrineal, it appeared, did have an organization, of sorts; worse, he had + gathered to him, by methods not peculiarly his own, the support of the + lesser East-Side foreign language press, which may or may not have + believed in his protestations of fealty to the Common People, but + certainly did appreciate the liberality of his political advertising + appropriation, advertising, in this sense, to be accorded its freest + interpretation. Worst of all, he had Banneker. + </p> + <p> + Banneker’s editorials, not upon Marrineal himself (for he was too + shrewd for that), but upon the cause of which Marrineal was + standard-bearer, were persuasive, ingenious, forceful, and, to the average + mind, convincing. Was Banneker himself convinced? It was a question which + he resolutely refused to follow to its logical conclusion. Of the justice + of the creed which The Patriot upheld, he was perfectly confident. But did + Marrineal represent that creed? Did he represent anything but Marrineal? + Stifling his misgivings, Banneker flung himself the more determinedly into + the fight. It became apparent that he was going to swing an important + fraction of the labor vote, despite the opposition of such clear-eyed + leaders as McClintick. To this extent he menaced the old ring rather than + the forces of reform, led by Laird and managed by Enderby. On the other + hand, he was drawing from Laird, in so far as he still influenced the + voters who had followed The Patriot in its original support of the reform + movement. That Marrineal could not be elected, both of his opponents + firmly believed; and in this belief, notwithstanding his claims of + forthcoming victory, the independent candidate privately concurred. It + would be enough, for the time, to defeat decisively whichever rival he + turned his heaviest guns upon in the final onset; that would insure his + future political prestige. Thus far, in his speeches, he had hit out + impartially at both sides, denouncing the old ring for its corruption, + girding at Laird as a fake reformer secretly committed to Wall Street + through Judge Enderby, corporation lawyer, as intermediary. + </p> + <p> + Herein Banneker had refrained from following him. Ever the cat at the hole’s + mouth, the patient lurker, the hopeful waiter upon the event, the + proprietor of The Patriot forbore to press his editorial chief. He still + mistrusted the strength of his hold upon Banneker; feared a defiance when + he could ill afford to meet it. What he most hoped was some development + which would turn Banneker’s heavy guns upon Laird so that, with the + defeat of the fusion ticket candidate, the public would say, “The + Patriot made him and The Patriot broke him.” + </p> + <p> + Laird played into Marrineal’s hands. Indignant at what he regarded + as a desertion of principles by The Patriot, the fusion nominee, in one of + his most important addresses, devoted a stinging ten minutes to a + consideration of that paper, its proprietor, and its editorial writer, in + its chosen role of “friend of labor.” His text was the + Veridian strike, his information the version which McClintick furnished + him; he cited Banneker by name, and challenged him as a prostituted mind + and a corrupted pen. Though Laird had spoken as he honestly believed, he + did not have the whole story; McClintick, in his account, had ignored the + important fact that Marrineal, upon being informed of conditions, had + actually (no matter what his motive) remedied them. Banneker, believing + that Laird was fully apprised, as he knew Enderby to be, was outraged. + This alleged reformer, this purist in politics, this apostle of honor and + truth, was holding him up to contumely, through half-truths, for a course + which any decent man must, in conscience, have followed. He composed a + seething editorial, tore it up, substituted another wherein he made reply + to the charges, in a spirit of ingenuity rather than ingenuousness, for + The Patriot case, while sound, was one which could not well be thrown open + to The Patriot’s public; and planned vengeance when the time should + come. + </p> + <p> + Io, on a brief trip from Philadelphia, lunched with him that week, and + found him distrait. + </p> + <p> + “It’s only politics,” he said. “You’re not + interested in politics,” and, as usual, “Let’s talk + about you.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him that look which was like a smile deep in the shadows of her + eyes. “Ban, do you know the famous saying of Terence?” + </p> + <p> + He quoted the “Homo sum.” “That one?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “Now, hear my version: ‘I am a woman; nothing that + touches <i>my</i> man is alien to my interests.’” + </p> + <p> + He laughed. But there was a note of gratitude in his voice, almost humble, + as he said: “You’re the only woman in the world, Io, who can + quote the classics and not seem a prig.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s because I’m beautiful,” she retorted + impudently. “<i>Tell</i> me I’m beautiful, Ban!” + </p> + <p> + “You’re the loveliest witch in the world,” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “So much for flattery. Now—politics.” + </p> + <p> + He recounted the Laird charges. + </p> + <p> + “No; that wasn’t fair,” she agreed. “It was most + unfair. But I don’t believe Bob Laird knew the whole story. Did you + ask him?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask him? I certainly did not. You don’t understand much about + politics, dearest.” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of it from the point of view of the newspaper. If + you’re going to answer him in The Patriot, I should think you’d + want to know just what his basis was. Besides, if he’s wrong, I + believe he’d take it back.” + </p> + <p> + “After all the damage has been done. He won’t get the chance.” + Banneker’s jaw set firm. + </p> + <p> + “What shall you do now?” + </p> + <p> + “Wait my chance, load my pen, and shoot to kill.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me see the editorial before you print it.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Miss Meddlesome. But you won’t let your ideas of + fair play run away with you and betray me to the enemy? You’re a + Laird man, aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Her voice fell to a caressing half-note. “I’m a Banneker woman—in + everything. Won’t you ever remember that?” + </p> + <p> + “No. You’ll never be that. You’ll always be Io; + yourself; remote and unattainable in the deeper sense.” + </p> + <p> + “Do <i>you</i> say that?” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t think that I complain. You’ve made life a + living glory for me. Yet”—his face grew wistful—“I + suppose—I don’t know how to say it—I’m like the + shepherd in the poem, + </p> + <p> + ‘Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable + shade.’ + </p> + <p> + Io, why do I always think in poetry, when I’m with you?” + </p> + <p> + “I want you always to,” she said, which was a more than + sufficient answer. + </p> + <p> + Io had been back in Philadelphia several days, and had ‘phoned + Banneker that she was coming over on the following Tuesday, when, having + worked at the office until early evening, he ran around the corner to + Katie’s for dinner. At the big table “Bunny” Fitch of + The Record was holding forth. + </p> + <p> + Fitch was that invaluable type of the political hack-writer, a lackey of + the mind, instinctively subservient to his paper’s slightest + opinion, hating what it hates, loving what it loves, with the servile + adherence of a medieval churchman. As The Record was bitter upon reform, + its proprietor having been sadly disillusioned in youth by a lofty but + abortive experiment in perfecting human nature from which he never + recovered, Bunny lost no opportunity to damn all reformers. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you imagine the dirty little snob,” he was + saying, as Banneker entered, “creeping and fawning and cringing for + their favors? Up for membership at The Retreat. Dines with Poultney + Masters, Jr., at his club. Can’t you hear him running home to wifie + all het up and puffed like a toad, and telling her about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s all this, Bunny?” inquired Banneker, who had + taken in only the last few words. + </p> + <p> + “Our best little society climber, the Honorable Robert Laird,” + returned the speaker, and reverted to his inspirational pen-picture: + “Runs home to wifie and crows, ‘What do you think, my dear! + Junior Masters called me ‘Bob’ to-day!” + </p> + <p> + In a flash, the murderous quality of the thing bit into Banneker’s + sensitive brain. “Junior Masters called me ‘Bob’ to-day.” + The apotheosis of snobbery! Swift and sure poison for the enemy if + properly compounded with printer’s ink. How pat it fitted in with + the carefully fostered conception, insisted upon in every speech by + Marrineal, of the mayor as a Wall Street and Fifth Avenue tool and toady! + </p> + <p> + But what exactly had Bunny Fitch said? Was he actually quoting Laird? If + so, direct or from hearsay? Or was he merely paraphrasing or perhaps only + characterizing? There was a dim ring in Banneker’s cerebral ear of + previous words, half taken in, which would indicate the latter—and + ruin the deadly plan, strike the poison-dose from his hand. Should he ask + Fitch? Pin him down to the details? + </p> + <p> + The character-sketcher was now upon the subject of Judge Enderby. “Sly + old wolf! Wants to be senator one of these days. Or maybe governor. A + ‘receptive’ candidate! Wah! Pulls every wire he can lay hand on, and + then waits for the honor to be forced upon him.... Good Lord! It’s + eight o’clock. I’m late.” + </p> + <p> + Dropping a bill on the table he hurried out. Half-minded to stop him, + Banneker took a second thought. Why should he? His statement had been + definite. Anyway, he could be called up on the morrow. Dining hastily and + in deep, period-building thought, Banneker returned to the office, locked + himself in, and with his own hand drafted the editorial built on that + phrase of petty and terrific import: “Junior Masters called me ‘Bob’ + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + After it was written he would not for the world have called up Fitch to + verify the central fact. He couldn’t risk it. He scheduled the + broadside for the second morning following.... But there was Io! He had + promised. Well, he was to meet her at a dinner party at the Forbes’s. + She could see it then, if she hadn’t forgotten.... No; that, too, + was a subterfuge hope. Io never forgot. + </p> + <p> + As if to assure the resumption of their debate, the talk of the Forbes + dinner table turned to the mayoralty fight. Shrewd judges of events and + tendencies were there; Thatcher Forbes, himself, not the least of them; it + was the express opinion that Laird stood a very good chance of victory. + </p> + <p> + “Unless they can definitely pin the Wall Street label on him,” + suggested some one. + </p> + <p> + “That might beat him; it’s the only thing that could,” + another opined. + </p> + <p> + Hugging his withering phrase to his heart, Banneker felt a growing + exultation. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody but The Patriot—” began Mrs. Forbes + contemptuously, when she abruptly recalled who was at her table. “The + newspapers are doing their worst, but I think they won’t make people + believe much of it,” she amended. + </p> + <p> + “Is Laird really the Wall Street candidate?” inquired Esther + Forbes. + </p> + <p> + Parley Welland, Io’s cousin, himself an amateur politician, answered + her: “He is or he isn’t, according as you look at it. Masters + and his crowd are mildly for him, because they haven’t any objection + to a decent, straight city government, at present. Sometimes they have.” + </p> + <p> + “On that principle, Horace Vanney must have,” remarked Jim + Maitland. “He’s fighting Laird, tooth and nail, and certainly + he represents one phase of Wall Street activity.” + </p> + <p> + “My revered uncle,” drawled Herbert Cressey, “considers + that the present administration is too tender of the working-man—or, + rather, working-woman—when she strikes. Don’t let ’em + strike; or, if they do strike, have the police bat ’em on the head.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s this administration got to do with Vanney’s + mills? I thought they were in Jersey,” another diner asked. + </p> + <p> + “So they are, the main ones. But he’s backing some of the + local clothing manufacturers, the sweat-shop lot. They’ve been + having strikes. That interferes with profits. Uncle wants the good old + days of the night-stick and the hurry-up wagon back. He’s even + willing to spend a little money on the good cause.” + </p> + <p> + Io, seated on Banneker’s left, turned to him. “Is that true, + Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve heard rumors to that effect,” he replied + evasively. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t it put The Patriot in a queer position, to be making + common cause with an enemy of labor?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t a question of Horace Vanney, at all,” he + declared. “He’s just an incident.” + </p> + <p> + “When are you going to write your Laird editorial?” + </p> + <p> + “All written. I’ve got a proof in my pocket.” + </p> + <p> + She made as if to hold out her hand; but withdrew it. “After dinner,” + she said. “The little enclosed porch off the conservatory.” + </p> + <p> + Amused and confirmatory glances followed them as they withdrew together. + But there was no ill-natured commentary. So habituated was their own + special set to the status between them that it was accepted with + tolerance, even with the good-humored approval with which human nature + regards a logical inter-attraction. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure that you want to plunge into politics, Io?” + Banneker asked, looking down at her as she seated herself in the cushioned + <i>chaise longue</i>. + </p> + <p> + Her mouth smiled assent, but her eyes were intent and serious. He dropped + the proof into her lap, bending over and kissing her lips as he did so. + For a moment her fingers interlaced over his neck. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll understand it,” she breathed, interpreting into + his caress a quality of pleading. + </p> + <p> + Before she had read halfway down the column, she raised to him a startled + face. “Are you sure, Ban?” she interrogated. + </p> + <p> + “Read the rest,” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + She complied. “What a terrible power little things have,” she + sighed. “That would make me despise Laird.” + </p> + <p> + “A million other people will feel the same way to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow? Is it to be published so soon?” + </p> + <p> + “In the morning’s issue.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban; is it true? Did he say that?” + </p> + <p> + “I have it from a man I’ve known ever since I came to New + York. He’s reliable.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s so unlike Bob Laird.” + </p> + <p> + “Why is it unlike him?” he challenged with a tinge of + impatience. “Hasn’t he been playing about lately with the + Junior Masters?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you happen to know,” she replied quietly, “that + Junior and Bob Laird were classmates and clubmates at college, and that + they probably always have called each other by their first names?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Have you ever heard them?” Angry regret beset him the + instant the question had passed his lips. If she replied in the + affirmative— + </p> + <p> + “No; I’ve never happened to hear them,” she admitted; + and he breathed more freely. + </p> + <p> + “Then my evidence is certainly more direct than yours,” he + pointed out. + </p> + <p> + “Ban; that charge once made public is going to be unanswerable, isn’t + it? Just because the thing itself is so cheap and petty?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You’ve got the true journalistic sense, Io.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there’s the more reason why you shouldn’t print it + unless you know it to be true.” + </p> + <p> + “But it <i>is</i> true.” Almost he had persuaded himself that + it was; that it must be. + </p> + <p> + “The Olneys are having the Junior Masters to dine this evening. I + know because I was asked; but of course I wanted to be here, where you + are. Let me call Junior on the ‘phone and ask him.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker flushed. “You can’t do that, Io.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, it isn’t the sort of thing that one can very well do,” + he said lamely. + </p> + <p> + “Not ask Junior if he and Bob Laird are old chums and call each + other by their first names?” + </p> + <p> + “How silly it would sound!” He tried to laugh the proposal + away. “In any case, it wouldn’t be conclusive. Besides, it’s + too late by this time.” + </p> + <p> + “Too late?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The forms are closed.” + </p> + <p> + “You couldn’t change it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I suppose I could, in an extreme emergency. But, dearest, it’s + all right. Why be so difficult?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t playing the game, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, it is. It’s playing the game as Laird has elected to + play it. Did he make inquiries before he attacked us on the Veridian + strike?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true,” she conceded. + </p> + <p> + “And my evidence for this is direct. You’ll have to trust me + and my professional judgment, Io.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed, but accepted this, saying, “If he <i>is</i> that kind of + a snob it ought to be published. Suppose he sues for libel?” + </p> + <p> + “He’d be laughed out of court. Why, what is there libelous in + saying that a man claims to have been called by his first name by another + man?” Banneker chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it ought to be libelous if it isn’t true,” + asserted Io warmly. “It isn’t fair or decent that a newspaper + can hold a man up as a boot-licker and toady, if he isn’t one, and + yet not be held responsible for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dearest, I didn’t make the libel laws. They’re + hard enough as it is.” His thought turned momentarily to Ely Ives, + the journalistic sandbag, and he felt a momentary qualm. “I don’t + pretend to like everything about my job. One of these days I’ll have + a newspaper of my own, and you shall censor every word that goes in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Help! Help!” she laughed. “I shouldn’t have the + time for anything else; not even for being in love with the proprietor. + Ban,” she added wistfully, “does it cost a very great deal to + start a new paper?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Or to buy an old one.” + </p> + <p> + “I have money of my own, you know,” she ventured. + </p> + <p> + He fondled her hand. “That isn’t even a temptation,” he + replied. + </p> + <p> + But it was. For a paper of his own was farther away from him than it had + ever been. That morning he had received his statement from his broker. To + date his losses on Union Thread were close to ninety thousand dollars. + </p> + <p> + Who shall measure the spreading and seeding potentialities of a + thistle-down or a catchy phrase? Within twenty-four hours after the + appearance of Banneker’s editorial, the apocryphal boast of Mayor + Laird to his wife had become current political history. Current? Rampant, + rather. Messenger boys greeted each other with “Dearie, Mr. Masters + calls me Bob.” Brokers on ‘Change shouted across a slow day’s + bidding, “What’s your cute little pet name? Mine’s + Bobbie.” Huge buttons appeared with miraculous celerity in the hands + of the street venders inscribed, + </p> + <p> + “Call me Bob but Vote for Marrineal” + </p> + <p> + Vainly did Judge Enderby come out with a statement to the press, declaring + the whole matter a cheap and nasty fabrication, and challenging The + Patriot to cite its authority. The damage already done was irreparable. + Sighting Banneker at luncheon a few days later, Horace Vanney went so far + as to cross the room to greet and congratulate him. + </p> + <p> + “A master-stroke,” he said, pressing Banneker’s hand + with his soft palm. “We’re glad to have you with us. Won’t + you call me up and lunch with me soon?” + </p> + <p> + At The Retreat, after polo, that Saturday, the senior Masters met Banneker + face to face in a hallway, and held him up. + </p> + <p> + “Politics is politics. Eh?” he grunted. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a great game,” returned the journalist. + </p> + <p> + “Think up that ‘call-me-Bob’ business yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I got it from a reliable source.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn lie,” remarked Poultney Masters equably. “Did the + work, though. Banneker, why didn’t you let me know you were in the + market?” + </p> + <p> + “In the stock-market? What has that—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> know what market I mean,” retorted the great man + with unconcealed contempt. “What you don’t know is your own + game. Always seek the highest bidder before you sell, my boy.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take that from no man—” began Banneker + hotly. + </p> + <p> + Immediately he was sensible of a phenomenon. His angry eyes, lifted to + Poultney Masters’s glistening little beads, were unable to endure + the vicious amusement which he read therein. For the first time in his + life he was stared down. He passed on, followed by a low and scornful + hoot. + </p> + <p> + Meeting Willis Enderby while charge and counter-charge still rilled the + air, Io put the direct query to him: + </p> + <p> + “Cousin Billy, what is the truth about the Laird-Masters story?” + </p> + <p> + “Made up out of whole cloth,” responded Enderby. + </p> + <p> + “Who made it up?” + </p> + <p> + Comprehension and pity were in his intonation as he replied: “Not + Banneker, I understand. It was passed on to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you don’t think him to blame?” she cried eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t exculpate him as readily as that. Such a story, + considering its inevitable—I may say its intended—consequences, + should never have been published without the fullest investigation.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose”—she hesitated—“he had it on what + he considered good authority?” + </p> + <p> + “He has never even cited his authority.” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t it have been confidential?” she pleaded. + </p> + <p> + “Io, do you know his authority? Has he told you?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Enderby’s voice was very gentle as he put his next question. “Do + you trust Banneker, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + She met his regard, unflinchingly, but there was a piteous quiver about + the lips which formed the answer. “I have trusted him. Absolutely.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah; well! I’ve seen too much good and bad too inextricably + mingled in human nature, to judge on part information.” + </p> + <p> + Election day came and passed. On the evening of it the streets were ribald + with crowds gleefully shrieking! “Call me Dennis, wifie. I’m + stung!” Laird had been badly beaten, running far behind Marrineal. + Halloran, the ring candidate, was elected. Banneker did it. + </p> + <p> + As he looked back on the incidents of the campaign and its culminating + event with a sense of self-doubt poisoning his triumph, that which most + sickened him of his own course was not the overt insult from the financial + emperor, but the soft-palmed gratulation of Horace Vanney. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + Ambition is the most conservative of influences upon a radical mind. No + sooner had Tertius Marrineal formulated his political hopes than there + were manifested in the conduct of The Patriot strange symptoms of a + hankering after respectability. Essentially Marrineal was not respectable, + any more than he was radical. He was simply and singly selfish. But, + having mapped out for himself a career which did not stop short of a + stately and deep-porticoed edifice in Washington’s Pennsylvania + Avenue (for his conception of the potential leverage of a great newspaper + increased with The Patriot’s circulation), he deemed it advisable to + moderate some of the more blatant features, on the same principle which + had induced him to reform the Veridian lumber mill abuses, lest they be + brought up to his political detriment later. A long-distance thinker, + Tertius Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + Operating through invisible channels and by a method which neither + Banneker nor Edmonds ever succeeded in fathoming, his influence now began + to be felt for the better tone of the news columns. They became less + glaringly sensational. Yet the quality of the news upon which the paper + specialized was the same; it was the handling which was insensibly + altered. That this was achieved without adversely affecting circulation + was another proof, added to those already accumulated, of Marrineal’s + really eminent journalistic capacities. The change was the less obvious, + because The Patriot’s competitors in the Great Three-Ringed Circus + of Sensation had found themselves being conducted, under that leadership, + farther along the primrose path of stimulation and salaciousness than they + had realized, and had already modified their policies. + </p> + <p> + Even under the new policy, however, The Patriot would hardly have proven, + upon careful analysis, more decent or self-respecting. But it was less + obvious; cleverer in avoiding the openly offensive. Capron had been curbed + in his pictorial orgies. The copy-readers had been supplied with a list of + words and terms tabooed from the captions. But the influence of Severance + was still potent in the make-up of the news. While Banneker was relieved + at the change, he suspected its impermanency should it prove unsuccessful. + To neither his chief editorial writer nor Russell Edmonds had the + proprietor so much as hinted at the modification of scheme. His silence to + these two was part of his developing policy of separating more widely the + different departments of the paper in order that he might be the more + quietly and directly authoritative over all. + </p> + <p> + The three men were lunching late at Delmonico’s, and talking + politics, when Edmonds leaned forward in his seat to look toward the + entrance. + </p> + <p> + “There’s Severance,” said he. “What’s the + matter with him?” + </p> + <p> + The professional infuser of excitements approached walking carefully among + the tables. His eyes burned in a white face. + </p> + <p> + “On one of his sprees,” diagnosed Banneker. “Oh, + Severance! Sit down here.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your p-p-pardon.” Severance spoke with marked + deliberation and delicacy, but with a faint stammer. “These not + b-being office hours, I have not the p-pleasure of your acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal smiled. + </p> + <p> + “The p-pale rictus of the damned,” observed Severance. “As + one damned soul to another, I c-confess a longing for companionship of + m-my own sort. Therefore I accept your invitation. Waiter, a Scotch + h-highball.” + </p> + <p> + “We were talking of—” began Banneker, when the newcomer + broke in: + </p> + <p> + “Talk of m-me. Of me and m-my work. I exult in my w-work. L-like Mr. + Whitman, I celebrate myself. I p-point with pride. What think you, + gentlemen, of to-day’s paper in honor of which I have t-taken my few + drinks?” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean the Territon story,” growled Edmonds, “it’s + rotten.” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. I thank you for your g-golden opinion. Rotten. Exactly + as intended.” + </p> + <p> + “Put a woman’s good name on trial and sentence it on hearsay + without appeal or recourse.” + </p> + <p> + “There is always the danger of going too far along those lines,” + pointed out Marrineal judicially. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, all-wise Proprietor. The d-danger lies in not going far + enough. The frightful p-peril of being found dull.” + </p> + <p> + “The Territon story assays too thin in facts, as we’ve put it + out. If Mrs. Territon doesn’t leave her husband now for McLaurin,” + opined Marrineal, “we are in a difficult position. I happen to know + her and I very much doubt—” + </p> + <p> + “Doubt not at all, d-doubting Tertius. The very fact of our + publishing the story will force her hand. It’s an achievement, that + story. No other p-paper has a line of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not more than one other would touch it, in its present form,” + said Banneker. “It’s too raw.” + </p> + <p> + “The more virtue to us. I r-regard that story as an inspiration. + Nobody could have brought it off b-but me. ‘A god, a god their + Severance ruled,’” punned the owner of the name. + </p> + <p> + “Beelzebub, god of filth and maggots,” snarled Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Bacchus, god of all true inspiration!” cried Severance. + “Waiter, slave of B-Bacchus, where is my Scotch?” + </p> + <p> + “Severance, you’re going too far along your chosen line,” + declared Banneker bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; we must tone down a little,” agreed Marrineal. + </p> + <p> + The sensationalist lifted calmly luminous eyes to his chief. “Why?” + he queried softly. “Are you meditating a change? Does the + journalistic l-lady of easy virtue begin to yearn f-for the paths of + respectability?” + </p> + <p> + “Steady, Severance,” warned Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + At the touch of the curb the other flamed into still, white wrath. “If + you’re going to be a whore,” he said deliberately, “play + the whore’s game. I’m one and I know it. Banneker’s one, + but hasn’t the courage to face it. You’re one, Edmonds—no, + you’re not; not even that. You’re the hallboy that f-fetches + the drinks—” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal had risen. Severance turned upon him. + </p> + <p> + “I salute you, Madam of our high-class establishment. When you take + your p-price, you at least look the business in the face. No illusions for + M-Madam Marrineal.... By the w-way, I resign from the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you coming, Mr. Edmonds?” said Marrineal. “You’ll + sign the check for me, will you, Mr. Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + Left alone with the disciple of Bacchus and Beelzebub, the editor said: + </p> + <p> + “Better get home, Severance. Come in to-morrow, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m q-quite in earnest about resigning. No further use + for the damned j-job now.” + </p> + <p> + “I never could see why you had any use for it in the first place. + Was it money?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see.” + </p> + <p> + “You d-don’t see at all. I wanted the m-money for a purpose. + The purpose was a woman. I w-wanted to keep pace with her and her s-set. + It was the set to which I rightly belonged, but I’d dropped out. I + thought I p-preferred drink. I didn’t after she got hold of me. I + d-don’t know why the d-devil I’m telling you all this.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry, Severance,” said Banneker honestly. + </p> + <p> + The other raised his glass. “Here’s to her,” he said. He + drank. “I wish her nothing w-worse than she’s got. Her name is—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment, Severance,” cut in Banneker sharply. “Don’t + say anything that you’ll regret. Naming of names—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there’s no harm in this, n-now,” said Severance + wearily. “Hers is smeared in filth all over our third page. It is + Maud Territon. What do you think of P-Patriotic journalism, anyway, + Banneker?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + With the accession to political control of Halloran and the old ring, the + influence of Horace Vanney and those whom he represented, became as potent + as it was secret. “Salutary measures” had been adopted toward + the garment-workers; a “firm hand” on the part of the police + had succeeded in holding down the strike through the fall and winter; but + in the early spring it was revived and spread throughout the city, even to + the doors of the shopping district. In another sense than the geographical + it was nearing the great department stores, for quiet efforts were being + made by some of the strike leaders to organize and unionize the underpaid + salesmen and saleswomen of the shops. Inevitably this drew into active + hostility to the strikers the whole power of the stores with their immense + advertising influence. + </p> + <p> + Very little news of the strike got into the papers except where some clash + with the police was of too great magnitude to be ignored; then the trend + of the articles was generally hostile to the strikers. The Sphere + published the facts briefly, as a matter of journalistic principle; The + Ledger published them with violent bias, as a matter of journalistic + habit; the other papers, including The Patriot, suppressed or minimized to + as great an extent as they deemed feasible. + </p> + <p> + That the troubles of some thousands of sweated wage-earners, employed upon + classes of machine-made clothing which would never come within the ken of + the delicately clad women of her world, could in any manner affect Io + Eyre, was most improbable. But the minor fate who manipulates + improbabilities elected that she should be in a downtown store at the + moment when a squad of mounted police charged a crowd of girl-strikers. + Hearing the scream of panic, she ran out, saw ignorant, wild-eyed girls, + hardly more than children, beaten down, trampled, hurried hither and + thither, seized upon and thrown into patrol wagons, and when she reached + her car, sick and furious, found an eighteen-year-old Lithuanian blonde + flopping against the rear fender in a dead faint. Strong as a young + panther, Io picked up the derelict in her arms, hoisted her into the + tonneau, and bade the disgusted chauffeur, “Home.” What she + heard from the revived girl, in the talk which followed, sent her, + hot-hearted, to the police court where the arrests would be brought up for + primary judgment. + </p> + <p> + The first person that she met there was Willis Enderby. + </p> + <p> + “If you’re on this strike case, Cousin Billy,” she said, + “I’m against you, and I’m ashamed of you.” + </p> + <p> + “You probably aren’t the former, and you needn’t be the + latter,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you Mr. Vanney’s lawyer? And isn’t he + interested in the strike?” + </p> + <p> + “Not openly. It happens that I’m here for the strikers.” + </p> + <p> + Io stared, incredulous. “For the strikers? You mean that they’ve + retained you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I’m really here in my capacity as President of the + Law Enforcement Society; to see that these women get the full protection + of the law, to which they are entitled. There is reason to believe that + they haven’t had it. And you?” + </p> + <p> + Io told him. + </p> + <p> + “Are you willing to go on the stand?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly; if it will do any good.” + </p> + <p> + “Not much, so far as the case goes. But it will force it into the + newspapers. ‘Society Leader Takes Part of Working-Girls,’ and + so-on. The publicity will be useful.” + </p> + <p> + The magistrate on the bench was lenient; dismissed most of the prisoners + with a warning against picketing; fined a few; sent two to jail. He seemed + surprised and not a little impressed by the distinguished Mrs. Delavan + Eyre’s appearance in the proceedings, and sent word out to the + reporters’ room, thereby breaking up a game of pinochle at its point + of highest interest. There was a man there from The Patriot. + </p> + <p> + With eager expectation Io, back in her Philadelphia apartment, sent out + for a copy of the New York Patriot. Greatly to her disgust she found + herself headlined, half-toned, described; but with very little about the + occasion of her testimony, a mere mention of the strike and nothing + whatsoever regarding the police brutalities which had so stirred her + wrath. Io discovered that she had lost her taste for publicity, in a + greater interest. Her first thought was to write Banneker indignantly; her + second to ask explanations when he called her on the ‘phone as he + now did every noon; her third to let the matter stand until she went to + New York and saw him. On her arrival, several days later, she went direct + to his office. Banneker’s chief interest, next to his ever-thrilling + delight in seeing her, was in the part played by Willis Enderby. + </p> + <p> + “What is he doing in that galley?” he wondered. + </p> + <p> + To her explanation he shook his head. Something more than that, he was + sure. Asking Io’s permission he sent for Russell Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t this a new role for Enderby?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. He’s been doing this sort of thing always. + Usually on the quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “The fact that this is far from being on the quiet suggests + politics, doesn’t it? Making up to the labor vote?” + </p> + <p> + “What on earth should Cousin Billy care for the labor vote?” + demanded Io. “Mr. Laird is dead politically, isn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “But Judge Enderby isn’t. Mr. Edmonds will tell you that much.” + </p> + <p> + “True enough. Enderby is a man to be reckoned with. Particularly if—” + Edmonds paused, hesitant. + </p> + <p> + “If—” prompted Banneker. “Fire ahead, Pop.” + </p> + <p> + “If Marrineal should declare in on the race for the governorship, + next fall.” + </p> + <p> + “Without any state organization? Is that probable?” asked + Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Only in case he should make a combination with the old ring crowd, + who are, naturally, grateful for his aid in putting over Halloran for + them. It’s quite within the possibilities.” + </p> + <p> + “After the way The Patriot and Mr. Marrineal himself have flayed the + ring?” exclaimed Io. “It isn’t possible. How could he so + go back on himself?” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds turned his fine and serious smile upon her. “Mr. Marrineal’s + guiding principle of politics <i>and</i> journalism is that the public + never remembers. If he persuades the ring to nominate him, Enderby is the + logical candidate against him. In my belief he’s the only man who + could beat him.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really think, Mr. Edmonds, that Judge Enderby’s help + to the arrested women is a political move?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the way it would be interpreted by all the + politicians. Personally, I don’t believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “His sympathies, professional and personal, are naturally on the + other side,” pointed out Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “But not yours, surely Ban!” cried Io. “Yours ought to + be with them. If you could have seen them as I did, helpless and + panic-stricken, with the horses pressing in on them—” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I’m with them,” warmly retorted Banneker. + “If I controlled the news columns of the paper, I’d make + another Sippiac Mills story of this.” No sooner had he said it than + he foresaw to what reply he had inevitably laid himself open. It came from + Io’s lips. + </p> + <p> + “You control the editorial column, Ban.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a subject to be handled in the news, not the editorials,” + he said hastily. + </p> + <p> + The silence that fell was presently relieved by Edmonds. “It’s + also being handled in the advertising columns. Have you seen the series of + announcements by the Garment Manufacturers’ Association? There are + four of ’em now in proof.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I haven’t seen them,” answered Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “They’re able. But on the whole they aren’t as able as + the strikers’ declaration in rebuttal, offered us to-day, one-third + of a page at regular advertising rates, same as the manufacturers’.” + </p> + <p> + “Enderby?” queried Banneker quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I seem to detect his fine legal hand in it.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker’s face became moody. “I suppose Haring refused to + publish it.” + </p> + <p> + “No. Haring’s for taking it.” + </p> + <p> + “How is that?” said the editor, astonished. “I thought + Haring—” + </p> + <p> + “You think of Haring as if Haring thought as you and I think. That + isn’t fair,” declared Edmonds. “Haring’s got a + business mind, straight within its limitations. He accepts this strike + stuff just as he accepts blue-sky mine fakes and cancer cures in which he + has no belief, because he considers that a newspaper is justified in + taking any ad. that is offered—and let the reader beware. Besides, + it goes against his grain to turn down real money.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it appear in to-morrow’s paper?” questioned Io. + </p> + <p> + “Probably, if it appears at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Why the ‘if’?” said Banneker. “Since Haring + has passed it—” + </p> + <p> + “There is also Marrineal.” + </p> + <p> + “Haring sent it to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. The useful and ubiquitous Ives, snooping as usual, came + upon it. Hence it is now in Marrineal’s hands. Likely to remain + there, I should think.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Marrineal won’t let it be published?” asked Io. + </p> + <p> + “That’s my guess,” returned the veteran. + </p> + <p> + “And mine,” added Banneker. + </p> + <p> + He felt her eyes of mute appeal fixed on him and read her meaning. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Io,” he promised quietly. “If Mr. Marrineal + won’t print it in advertising, I’ll print it as editorial.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” Io and Edmonds spoke in one breath. + </p> + <p> + “Day after to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s war,” said Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “In a good cause,” declared Io proudly. + </p> + <p> + “The cause of the independence of Errol Banneker,” said the + veteran. “It was bound to come. Go in and win, son. I’ll get + you a proof of the ad.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban!” said Io with brightened regard. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Will you put something at the head of your column for me, if that + editorial appears?” + </p> + <p> + “What? Wait! I know. The quotation from the Areopagitica. Is that + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Fine! I’ll do it.” + </p> + <p> + On the following morning The Patriot appeared as usual. The first of the + Manufacturers’ Association arguments to the public was conspicuously + displayed. Of the strikers’ reply—not a syllable. Banneker + went to Haring’s office; found the business manager gloomy, but + resigned. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Marrineal turned it down. He’s got the right. That’s + all there is to it,” was his version. + </p> + <p> + “Not quite,” remarked Banneker, and went home to prove it. + </p> + <p> + Into the editorial which was to constitute the declaration of Errol + Banneker’s independence went much thinking, and little writing. The + pronunciamento of the strikers, prefaced by a few words of explanation, + and followed by some ringing sentences as to the universal right to a fair + field, was enough. At the top of the column the words of Milton, in small, + bold print. Across the completed copy he wrote “Thursday. Must.” + </p> + <p> + Never had Banneker felt in finer fettle for war than when he awoke that + Thursday morning. Contrary to his usual custom, he did not even look at + the copy of The Patriot brought to his breakfast table; he wanted to have + that editorial fresh to eye and mind when Marrineal called him to account + for it. For this was a challenge which Marrineal could not ignore. He + breakfasted with a copy of “The Undying Voices” propped behind + his coffee cup, refreshing himself before battle with the delights of + allusive memory, bringing back the days when he and lo had read and + discovered together. It was noon when he reached the office. + </p> + <p> + From the boy at the entrance he learned that Mr. Marrineal had come in. + Doubtless he would find a summons on his desk. None was there. Perhaps + Marrineal would come to him. He waited. Nothing. Taking up the routine of + the day, he turned to his proofs, with a view to laying out his schedule. + </p> + <p> + The top one was his editorial on the strikers’ cause. + </p> + <p> + Across it was blue-penciled the word “Killed.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker snatched up the morning’s issue. The editorial was not + there. In its place he read, from the top of the column: “And though + all the winds of doctrine blow”—and so on, to the close of + Milton’s proud challenge, followed by: + </p> + <p> + “Would You Let Your Baby Drink Carbolic?” + </p> + <p> + For the strike editorial had been substituted one of Banneker’s + typical “mother-fetchers,” as he termed them, very useful in + their way, and highly approved by the local health authorities. This one + was on the subject of pure milk. Its association with the excerpt from the + Areopagitica (which, having been set for a standing head, was not cut out + by the “Killed”) set the final touch of irony upon the matter. + Even in his fury Banneker laughed. + </p> + <p> + He next considered the handwriting of the blue-penciled monosyllable. It + was not Marrineal’s blunt, backhand script. Whose was it? Haring’s? + Trailing the proof in his hand he went to the business manager’s + room. + </p> + <p> + “Did you kill this?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Haring got to his feet, white and shaking. “For + God’s sake, Mr. Banneker—” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going to hurt you—yet. By what right did you do + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Orders.” + </p> + <p> + “Marrineal’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + With no further word, Banneker strode to the owner’s office, pushed + open the door, and entered. Marrineal looked up, slightly frowning. + </p> + <p> + “Did you kill this editorial?” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal’s frown changed to a smile. “Sit down, Mr. Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + “Marrineal, did you kill my editorial?” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t your tone a trifle peremptory, for an employee?” + </p> + <p> + “It won’t take more than five seconds for me to cease to be an + employee,” said Banneker grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah? I trust you’re not thinking of resigning. By the way, + some reporter called on me last week to confirm a rumor that you were + about to resign. Let me see; what paper? Ah; yes; it wasn’t a + newspaper, at least, not exactly. The Searchlight. I told her—it + happened to be a woman—that the story was quite absurd.” + </p> + <p> + Something in the nature of a cold trickle seemed to be flowing between + Banneker’s brain and his tongue. He said with effort, “Will + you be good enough to answer my question?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Mr. Banneker, that was an ill-advised editorial. Or, + rather, an ill-timed one. I didn’t wish it published until we had + time to talk it over.” + </p> + <p> + “We could have talked it over yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “But I understood that you were busy with callers yesterday. That + charming Mrs. Eyre, who, by the way, is interested in the strikers, isn’t + she? Or was it the day before yesterday that she was here?” + </p> + <p> + The Searchlight! And now Io Eyre! No doubt of what Marrineal meant. The + cold trickle had passed down Banneker’s spine, and settled at his + knees making them quite unreliable. Inexplicably it still remained to + paralyze his tongue. + </p> + <p> + “We’re reasonable men, you and I, Mr. Banneker,” pursued + Marrineal in his quiet, detached tones. “This is the first time I + have ever interfered. You must do me the justice to admit that. Probably + it will be the last. But in this case it was really necessary. Shall we + talk it over later?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Banneker listlessly. + </p> + <p> + In the hallway he ran into somebody, who cursed him, and then said, oh, he + hadn’t noticed who it was; Pop Edmonds. Edmonds disappeared into + Marrineal’s office. Banneker regained his desk and sat staring at + the killed proof. He thought vaguely that he could appreciate the + sensation of a man caught by an octopus. Yet Marrineal didn’t look + like an octopus.... What did he look like? What was that subtle + resemblance which had eluded him in the first days of their + acquaintanceship? That emanation of chill quietude; those stagnant eyes? + </p> + <p> + He had it now! It dated back to his boyhood days. A crawling terror which, + having escaped from a menagerie, had taken refuge in a pool, and there + fixed its grip upon an unfortunate calf, and dragged—dragged—dragged + the shrieking creature, until it went under. A crocodile. + </p> + <p> + His reverie was broken by the irruption of Russell Edmonds. An inch of the + stem of the veteran’s dainty little pipe was clenched firmly between + his teeth; but there was no bowl. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the rest of your pipe?” asked Banneker, + stupefied by this phenomenon. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve resigned,” said Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “God! I wish I could,” muttered Banneker. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + Explanations were now due to two people, Io and Willis Enderby. As to Io, + Banneker felt an inner conviction of strength. Hopeless though he was of + making his course appear in any other light than that of surrender, + nevertheless he could tell himself that it was really done for her, to + protect her name. But he could not tell her this. He knew too well what + the answer of that high and proud spirit of hers would be; that if their + anomalous relationship was hampering his freedom, dividing his conscience, + the only course of honor was for them to stop seeing each other at no + matter what cost of suffering; let Banneker resign, if that were his + rightful course, and tell The Searchlight to do its worst. Yes; such would + be Io’s idea of playing the game. He could not force it. He must + argue with her, if at all, on the plea of expediency. And to her + forthright and uncompromising fearlessness, expediency was in itself the + poorest of expedients. At the last, there was her love for him to appeal + to. But would Io love where she could not trust?... He turned from that + thought. + </p> + <p> + As an alternative subject for consideration, Willis Enderby was hardly + more assuring and even more perplexing. True, Banneker owed no explanation + to him; but for his own satisfaction of mind he must have it out with the + lawyer. He had a profound admiration for Enderby and knew that this was in + a measure reciprocated by a patent and almost wistful liking, curious in a + person as reserved as Enderby. He cherished a vague impression that + somehow Enderby would understand. Or, at least, that he would want to + understand. Consequently he was not surprised when the lawyer called him + up and asked him to come that evening to the Enderby house. He went at + once to the point. + </p> + <p> + “Banneker, do you know anything of an advertisement by the striking + garment-workers, which The Patriot first accepted and afterward refused to + print?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you at liberty to tell me why?” + </p> + <p> + “In confidence.” + </p> + <p> + “That is implied.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Marrineal ordered it killed.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! It was Marrineal himself. The advocate of the Common People! + The friend of Labor!” + </p> + <p> + “Admirable campaign material,” observed Banneker composedly, + “if it were possible to use it.” + </p> + <p> + “Which, of course, it isn’t; being confidential,” + Enderby capped the thought. “I hear that Russell Edmonds has + resigned.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true.” + </p> + <p> + “In consequence of the rejected advertisement?” + </p> + <p> + Banneker sat silent so long that his host began: “Perhaps I shouldn’t + have asked that—” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to tell you exactly what occurred,” said + Banneker quietly, and outlined the episode of the editorial, suppressing, + however, Marrineal’s covert threat as to Io and The Searchlight. + “And <i>I</i> haven’t resigned. So you see what manner of man + I am,” he concluded defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “You mean a coward? I don’t think it.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I were sure!” burst out Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Ah? That’s hard, when the soul doesn’t know itself. Is + it money?” The crisp, clear voice had softened to a great + kindliness. “Are you in debt, my boy?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Yes; I am. I’d forgotten. That doesn’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Apparently not.” The lawyer’s heavy brows went up, + “More serious than money,” he commented. + </p> + <p> + Banneker recognized the light of suspicion, comprehension, confirmation in + the keen and fine visage turned upon him. Enderby continued: + </p> + <p> + “Well, there are matters that can be talked of and other matters + that can’t be talked of. But if you ever feel that you want the + advice of a man who has seen human nature on a good many sides, and has + learned not to judge too harshly of it, come to me. The only counsel I + ever give gratis to those who can pay for it”—he smiled + faintly—“is the kind that may be too valuable to sell.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’d like to know,” said Banneker slowly, “why + you don’t think me a yellow dog for not resigning.” + </p> + <p> + “Because, in your heart you don’t think yourself one. Speaking + of that interesting species, I suppose you know that your principal is + working for the governorship.” + </p> + <p> + “Will he get the nomination?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite possibly. Unless I can beat him for it. I’ll tell you + privately I may be the opposing candidate. Not that the party loves me any + too much; but I’m at least respectable, fairly strong up-State, and + they’ll take what they have to in order to beat Marrineal, who is + forcing himself down their throats.” + </p> + <p> + “A pleasant prospect for me,” gloomed Banneker. “I’ll + have to fight you.” + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead and fight,” returned the other heartily. “It + won’t be the first time.” + </p> + <p> + “At least, I want you to know that it’ll be fair fight.” + </p> + <p> + “No ‘Junior-called-me-Bob’ trick this time?” + smiled Enderby. + </p> + <p> + Banneker flushed and winced. “No,” he answered. “Next + time I’ll be sure of my facts. Good-night and good luck. I hope you + beat us.” + </p> + <p> + As he turned the corner into Fifth Avenue a thought struck him. He made + the round of the block, came up the side of the street opposite, and met a + stroller having all the ear-marks of the private detective. To think of a + man of Judge Enderby’s character being continuously “spotted” + for the mean design of an Ely Ives filled Banneker with a sick fury. His + first thought was to return and tell Enderby. But to what purpose? After + all, what possible harm could Ives’s plotting and sneaking do to a + man of the lawyer’s rectitude? Banneker returned to The House With + Three Eyes and his unceasing work. + </p> + <p> + The interview with Enderby had lightened his spirit. The older man’s + candor, his tolerance, his clear charity of judgment, his sympathetic + comprehension were soothing and reassuring. But there was another trouble + yet to be faced. It was three days since the editorial appeared and he had + heard no word from Io. Each noon when he called on the long-distance + ‘phone, she had been out, an unprecedented change from her eager + waiting to hear the daily voice on the wire. Should he write? No; it was + too difficult and dangerous for that. He must talk it out with her, face + to face, when the time came. + </p> + <p> + Meantime there was Russell Edmonds. He found the veteran cleaning out his + desk preparatory to departure. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t know how it hurts to see you go, Pop,” he + said sadly. “What’s your next step?” + </p> + <p> + “The Sphere. They want me to do a special series, out around the + country.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t they pretty conservative for your ideas?” + </p> + <p> + Edmonds, ruminating over a pipe even smaller and more fragile than the one + sacrificed to his rage and disgust, the day of his resignation, gave + utterance to a profound truth: + </p> + <p> + “What’s the difference whether a newspaper is radical or + conservative, Ban, if it tells the truth? That’s the whole test and + touchstone; to give news honestly. The rest will take care of itself. + Compared to us The Sphere crowd are conservative. But they’re + honest. And they’re not afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They’re honest, and not afraid—because they don’t + have to be,” said Banneker, in a tone so somber that his friend said + quickly: + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t mean that for you, son.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if I’ve gone wrong, I’ve got my punishment before + me,” pursued the other with increased gloom. “Having to work + for Marrineal and further his plans, after knowing him as I know him now—that’s + a refined species of retribution, Pop.” + </p> + <p> + “I know; I know. You’ve got to stick and wait your chance, and + hold your following until you can get your own newspaper. Then,” + said Russell Edmonds with the glory of an inspired vision shining in his + weary eyes, “you can tell ’em all to go to hell. Oh, for a + paper of our own kind that’s really independent; that don’t + care a hoot for anything except to get the news and get it straight, and + interpret it straight; that don’t have to be afraid of anything but + not being honest!” + </p> + <p> + “Pop,” said Banneker, spiritlessly, “what’s the + use? How do we know we aren’t chasing a rainbow? How do we know + people <i>want</i> an honest paper or would know one if they saw it?” + </p> + <p> + “My God, son! Don’t talk like that,” implored the + veteran. “That’s the one heresy for which men in our game are + eternally damned—and deserve it.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I know it. I don’t mean it, Pop. I’m not + adopting Marrineal’s creed. Not just yet.” + </p> + <p> + “By the way, Marrineal was asking for you this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Was he? I’ll look him up. Perhaps he’s going to fire + me. I wish he would.” + </p> + <p> + “Catch him!” grunted the other, reverting to his task. “More + likely going to raise your salary.” + </p> + <p> + As between the two surmises, Edmonds’s was the nearer the truth. + 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. After some + discussion as to the policy of the paper in respect to the strike, which + was on the point of settlement by compromise, Marrineal set his delicate + fingers point to point and said: + </p> + <p> + “I want to talk to you about the future.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m listening,” returned Banneker uncompromisingly. + </p> + <p> + “Your ultimate ambition is to own and control a newspaper of your + own, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you think that?” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal’s slow, sparse smile hardly moved his lips. “It’s + in character that you should. What else is there for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever thought of The Patriot?” + </p> + <p> + Involuntarily Banneker straightened in his chair. “Is The Patriot in + the market?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly. That isn’t what I have in mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you kindly be more explicit?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Banneker, I intend to be the next governor of this State.” + </p> + <p> + “I might quote a proverb on that point,” returned the editor + unpleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and I might cap your cup-and-lip proverb with another as to + the effect of money as a stimulus in a horse-race.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no doubts as to your financial capacity.” + </p> + <p> + “My organization is building up through the State. I’ve got + the country newspapers in a friendly, not to say expectant, mood. There’s + just one man I’m afraid of.” + </p> + <p> + “Judge Enderby?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think he would be an admirable nominee.” + </p> + <p> + “As an individual you are at liberty to hold such opinions as you + please. As editor of The Patriot—” + </p> + <p> + “I am to support The Patriot candidate and owner. Did you send for + me to tell me that, Mr. Marrineal? I’m not altogether an idiot, + please remember.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a friend of Judge Enderby.” + </p> + <p> + “If I am, that is a personal, not a political matter. No matter how + much I might prefer to see him the candidate of the party”—Banneker + spoke with cold deliberation—“I should not stultify myself or + the paper by supporting him against the paper’s owner.” + </p> + <p> + “That is satisfactory.” Marrineal swallowed the affront + without a gulp. “To continue. If I am elected governor, nothing on + earth can prevent my being the presidential nominee two years later.” + </p> + <p> + Equally appalled and amused by the enormous egotism of the man thus + suddenly revealed, Banneker studied him in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing in the world,” repeated the other. “I have the + political game figured out to an exact science. I know how to shape my + policies, how to get the money backing I need, how to handle the farmer + and labor. It may be news to you to know that I now control eight of the + leading farm journals of the country and half a dozen labor organs. + However, this is beside the question. My point with you is this. With my + election as governor, my chief interest in The Patriot ceases. The paper + will have set me on the road; I’ll do the rest. Reserving only the + right to determine certain very broad policies, I purpose to turn over the + control of The Patriot to you.” + </p> + <p> + “To me!” said Banneker, thunderstruck. + </p> + <p> + “Provided I am elected governor,” said Marrineal. “Which + depends largely—yes, almost entirely—on the elimination of + Judge Enderby.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you asking me to do?” demanded Banneker, genuinely + puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely nothing. As my right-hand man on the paper, you are + entitled to know my plans, particularly as they affect you. I can add that + when I reach the White House”—this with sublime confidence—“the + paper will be for sale and you may have the option on it.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker’s brain seemed filled with flashes of light, as he returned + to his desk. He sat there, deep-slumped in his chair, thinking, planning, + suspecting, plumbing for the depths of Marrineal’s design, and above + all filled with an elate ambition. Not that he believed for a moment in + Marrineal’s absurd and megalomaniacal visions of the presidency. But + the governorship; that indeed was possible enough; and that would mean a + free hand for Banneker for the term. What might he not do with The Patriot + in that time!... An insistent and obtrusive disturbance to his profound + cogitation troubled him. What was it that seemed to be setting forth a + claim to divide his attention? Ah, the telephone. He thrust it aside, but + it would not be silenced. Well ... what.... The discreet voice of his man + said that a telegram had come for him. All right (with impatience); read + it over the wire. The message, thus delivered in mechanical tones, struck + from his mind the lesser considerations which a moment before had glowed + with such shifting and troublous glory. + </p> + <p> + D. died this morning. Will write. I. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + Work, incessant and of savage ardor, now filled Banneker’s life. + Once more he immersed himself in it as assuagement to the emptiness of + long days and the yearning of longer nights. For, in the three months + since Delavan Eyre’s death, Banneker had seen Io but once, and then + very briefly. Instead of subduing her loveliness, the mourning garb + enhanced and enriched it, like a jet setting to a glowing jewel. More + irresistibly than ever she was + </p> + <p> + “............ that Lady Beauty in whose praise The voice and hand + shake still”— + </p> + <p> + but there was something about her withdrawn, aloof of spirit, which he + dared not override or even challenge. She spoke briefly of Eyre, without + any pretense of great sorrow, dwelling with a kindled eye on that which + she had found admirable in him; his high and steadfast courage through + atrocious suffering until darkness settled down on his mind. Her own plans + were definite; she was going away with the elder Mrs. Eyre to a rest + resort. Of The Patriot and its progress she talked with interest, but her + questions were general and did not touch upon the matter of the + surrendered editorial. Was she purposely avoiding it or had it passed from + her mind in the stress of more personal events? Banneker would have liked + to know, but deemed it better not to ask. Once he tried to elicit from her + some indication of when she would marry him; but from this decision she + exhibited a covert and inexplicable shrinking. This he might attribute, if + he chose, to that innate and sound formalism which would always lead her + to observe the rules of the game; if from no special respect for them as + such, then out of deference to the prejudices of others. Nevertheless, he + experienced a gnawing uncertainty, amounting to a half-confessed dread. + </p> + <p> + Yet, at the moment of parting, she came to his arms, clung to him, gave + him her lips passionately, longingly; bade him write, for his letters + would be all that there was to keep life radiant for her.... + </p> + <p> + Through some perverse kink in his mental processes, he found it difficult + to write to Io, in the succeeding weeks and months, during which she + devotedly accompanied the failing Mrs. Eyre from rest cure to sanitarium, + about his work on The Patriot. That interplay of interest between them in + his editorial plans and purposes, which had so stimulated and inspired + him, was checked. The mutual current had ceased to flash; at least, so he + felt. Had the wretched affair of his forfeited promise in the matter of + the strike announcement destroyed one bond between them? Even were this + true, there were other bonds, of the spirit and therefore irrefragable, to + hold her to him; thus he comforted his anxious hopes. + </p> + <p> + Because their community of interest in his work had lapsed, Banneker found + the savor oozing out of his toil. Monotony sang its dispiriting drone in + his ears. He flung himself into polo with reawakened vim, and roused the + hopes of The Retreat for the coming season, until an unlucky spill broke + two ribs and dislocated a shoulder. Restless in the physical idleness of + his mending days, he took to drifting about in the whirls and ripples and + backwaters of the city life, out of which wanderings grew a new series of + the “Vagrancies,” more quaint and delicate and trenchant than + the originals because done with a pen under perfected mastery, without + losing anything of the earlier simplicity and sympathy. In this work, + Banneker found relief; and in Io’s delight in it, a reflected joy + that lent fresh impetus to his special genius. The Great Gaines + enthusiastically accepted the new sketches for his magazine. + </p> + <p> + Whatever ebbing of fervor from his daily task Banneker might feel, his + public was conscious of no change for the worse. Letters of commendation, + objection, denunciation, and hysteria, most convincing evidence of an + editor’s sway over the public mind, increased weekly. So, also, did + the circulation of The Patriot, and its advertising revenue. Its course in + the garment strike had satisfied the heavy local advertisers of its + responsibility and repentance for sins past; they testified, by material + support, to their appreciation. Banneker’s strongly pro-labor + editorials they read with the mental commentary that probably The Patriot + had to do that kind of thing to hold its circulation; but it could be + depended upon to be “right” when the pinch came. Marrineal + would see to that. + </p> + <p> + Since the episode of the killed proof, Marrineal had pursued a hands-off + policy with regard to the editorial page. The labor editorials suited him + admirably. They were daily winning back to the paper the support of + Marrineal’s pet “common people” who had been alienated + by its course in the strike, for McClintick and other leaders had been + sedulously spreading the story of the rejected strikers’ + advertisement. But, it appeared, Marrineal’s estimate of the public’s + memory was correct: “They never remember.” Banneker’s + skillful and vehement preachments against Wall Street, money domination of + the masses, and the like, went far to wipe out the inherent anti-labor + record of the paper and its owner. Hardly a day passed that some + working-man’s union or club did not pass resolutions of confidence + and esteem for Tertius C. Marrineal and The Patriot. It amused Marrineal + almost as much as it gratified him. As a political asset it was + invaluable. His one cause of complaint against the editorial page was that + it would not attack Judge Enderby, except on general political or economic + principles. And the forte of The Patriot in attack did not consist in + polite and amenable forensics. Its readers were accustomed to the methods + of the prize-ring rather than the debating platform. However, Marrineal + made up for his editorial writer’s lukewarmness, by the vigor of his + own attacks upon Enderby. For, by early summer, it became evident that the + nomination (and probable election) lay between these two opponents. + Enderby was organizing a strong campaign. So competent and unbiased an + observer of political events as Russell Edmonds, now on The Sphere, + believed that Marrineal would be beaten. Shrewd, notwithstanding his + egotism, Marrineal entertained a growing dread of this outcome himself. + Through roundabout channels, he let his chief editorial writer understand + that, when the final onset was timed, The Patriot’s editorial page + would be expected to lead the charge with the “spear that knows no + brother.” Banneker would appreciate that his own interests, almost + as much as his chief’s, were committed to the overthrow of Willis + Enderby. + </p> + <p> + It was not a happy time for the Editor of The Patriot. + </p> + <p> + Happiness promised for the near future, however. Wearied of chasing a + phantom hope of health from spot to spot, the elder Mrs. Eyre had finally + elected to settle down for the summer at her Westchester place. For + obvious reasons, Io did not wish Banneker to come there. But she would + plan to see him in town. Only, they must be very discreet; perhaps even to + the extent of having a third person dine with them, her half-brother + Archie, or Esther Forbes. Any one, any time, anywhere, Banneker wrote + back, provided only he could see her again! + </p> + <p> + The day that she came to town, having arranged to meet Banneker for dinner + with Esther, fate struck from another and unexpected quarter. Such was + Banneker’s appearance when he came forward to greet her that Io + cried out involuntarily, asking if he were ill. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i>’m not,” he answered briefly. Then, with a + forced smile of appeal to the third member, “Do you mind, Esther, if + I talk to Io on a private matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Go as near as you like,” returned that understanding young + person promptly. “I’m consumed with a desire to converse with + Elsie Maitland, who is dining in that very farthest corner. Back in an + hour.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s Camilla Van Arsdale,” said Banneker as the girl + left. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve heard from her?” + </p> + <p> + “From Mindle who looks after my shack there. He says she’s + very ill. I’ve got to go out there at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ban!” + </p> + <p> + “I know, dearest, and after all these endless weeks of separation. + But you wouldn’t have me do otherwise. Would you?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” she said indignantly. “When do you + start?” + </p> + <p> + “At midnight.” + </p> + <p> + “And your work?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll send my stuff in by wire.” + </p> + <p> + “How long?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell until I get there.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban, you mustn’t go,” she said with a changed tone. + </p> + <p> + “Not go? To Miss Camilla? There’s nothing—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? If she’s seriously ill, she needs a woman, not a man + with her.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but, Io, you don’t even like her.” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven give you understanding, Ban,” she retorted with a + bewitching pretext of enforced patience. “She’s a woman, and + she was good to me in my trouble. And if that weren’t enough, she’s + your friend whom you love.” + </p> + <p> + “I oughtn’t to let you,” he hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got to let me. I’d go, anyway. Get Esther back. + She must help me pack. Get me a drawing-room if you can. If not, I’ll + take your berth.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re going to leave to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. What would you suppose?” She gave him her lustrous + smile. “I’ll love it,” she said softly, “because + it’s partly for you.” + </p> + <p> + The rest of the evening was consumed for Banneker in writing and wiring, + arranging reservations through his influence with a local railroad + official whom he pried loose from a rubber of bridge at his club; while Io + and Esther, dinnerless except for a hasty box of sandwiches, were back in + Westchester packing and explaining to Mrs. Eyre. When the three reconvened + in Io’s drawing-room the traveler was prepared for an indefinite + stay. + </p> + <p> + “If her condition is critical I’ll wire for you,” + promised lo. “Otherwise you mustn’t come.” + </p> + <p> + With that he must make shift to be content; that and a swift clasp of her + arms, a clinging pressure of her lips, and her soft “Good-bye. Oh, + good-bye! Love me every minute while I’m gone,” before the + tactful Esther Forbes, somewhat miscast in the temporary role of + Propriety, returned from a conversation with the porter to say that they + really must get off that very instant or be carried westward to the + eternal scandal of society which would not understand a triangular + elopement. + </p> + <p> + Loneliness no longer beset Banneker, even though Io was farther separated + from him than before in the unimportant reckoning of geographical miles; + for now she was on his errand. He held her by the continuous thought of a + vital common interest. In place of the former bereavement of spirit was a + new and consuming anxiety for Camilla Van Arsdale. Io’s first + telegram from Manzanita went far to appease that. Miss Van Arsdale had + suffered a severe shock, but was now on the road to recovery: Io would + stay indefinitely: there was no reason for Banneker’s coming out for + the present: in fact, the patient definitely prohibited it: letter + followed. + </p> + <p> + The letter, when it came, forced a cry, as of physical pain, from Banneker’s + throat. Camilla Van Arsdale was going blind. Some obscure reflex of the + heart trouble had affected the blood supply of the eyes, and the shock of + discovering this had reacted upon the heart. There was no immediate + danger; but neither was there ultimate hope of restored vision. So much + the eminent oculist whom Io had brought from Angelica City told her. + </p> + <p> + Your first thought (wrote Io) will be to come out here at once. Don’t. + It will be much better for you to wait until she needs you more; until you + can spend two or three weeks or a month with her. Now I can help her + through the days by reading to her and walking with her. You don’t + know how happy it makes me to be here where I first knew you, to live over + every event of those days. Your movable shack is almost as it used to be, + though there is no absurd steel boat outside for me to stumble into. + </p> + <p> + Would you believe it; the new station-agent has a Sears-Roebuck catalogue! + I borrowed it of him to read. What, oh, what should a sensible person—yes, + I am a sensible person, Ban, outside of my love for you—and I’d + scorn to be sensible about that—Where was I? Oh, yes; what should a + sensible person find in these simple words “Two horse-power, + reliable and smooth-running, economical of gasoline,” and so on, to + make her want to cry? Ban, send me a copy of “The Voices.” + </p> + <p> + He sent her “The Undying Voices” and other books to read, and + long, impassioned letters, and other letters to be read to Camilla Van + Arsdale whose waning vision must be spared in every possible way. + </p> + <p> + Hour after hour (wrote Io) she sits at the piano and makes her wonderful + music, and tries to write it down. There I can be of very little help to + her. Then she will go back into her room and lie on the big couch near the + window where the young, low pines brush the wall, with Cousin Billy’s + photograph in her hands, and be so deathly quiet that I sometimes get + frightened and creep up to the door to peer in and be sure that she is all + right. To-day when I looked in at the door I heard her say, quite softly + to herself: “I shall die without seeing his face again.” I had + to hold my breath and run out into the forest. Ban, I didn’t know + that it was in me to cry so—not since that night on the train when I + left you.... This all seems so wicked and wrong and—yes—wasteful. + Think of what these two splendid people could be to each other! She craves + him so, Ban; just the sound of his voice, a word from him; but she won’t + break her own word. Sometimes I think I shall do it. Write me all you can + about him, Ban, and send papers: all the political matter. You can’t + imagine what it is to her only to hear about him. + </p> + <p> + So Banneker had clippings collected, wrote a little daily political + bulletin for Io; even went out of his way editorially to pay an occasional + handsome tribute to Judge Enderby’s personal character, whilst + adducing cogent reasons why, as the “Wall Street and traction + candidate,” he should be defeated. But his personal opinion, + expressed for the behoof of his correspondents in Manzanita, was that he + probably could not be defeated; that his brilliant and aggressive campaign + was forcing Marrineal to a defensive and losing fight. + </p> + <p> + “It is a great asset in politics,” wrote Banneker to Miss + Camilla, “to have nothing to hide or explain. If we’re going + to be licked, there is no man in the world whom I’d as gladly have + win as Judge Enderby.” + </p> + <p> + All this, of course, in the manner of one having interesting political + news of no special import to the receiver of the news, to deliver; and + quite without suggestion of any knowledge regarding her personal concern + in the matter. + </p> + <p> + But between the lines of Io’s letters, full of womanly pity for + Camilla Van Arsdale, of resentment for her thwarted and hopeless longing, + Banneker thought to discern a crystallizing resolution. It would be so + like Io’s imperious temper to take the decision into her own hands, + to bring about a meeting between the long-sundered lovers, to cast into + the lonely and valiant woman’s darkening life one brief and splendid + glow of warmth and radiance. For to Io, a summons for Willis Enderby to + come would be no more than a defiance of the conventions. She knew nothing + of the ruinous vengeance awaiting any breach of faith on his part, at the + hands of a virulent and embittered wife; she did not even know that his + coming would be a specific breach of faith, for Banneker, withheld by his + promise of secrecy to Russell Edmonds, had never told her. Nor had he + betrayed to her the espionage under which Enderby constantly moved; he + shrank, naturally, from adding so ignoble an item to the weight of + disrepute under which The Patriot already lay, in her mind. Sooner or + later he must face the question from her of why he had not resigned rather + than put his honor in pawn to the baser uses of the newspaper and its + owner’s ambitions. To that question there could be no answer. He + could not throw the onus of it upon her, by revealing to her that the + necessity of protecting her name against the befoulment of The Searchlight + was the compelling motive of his passivity. That was not within Banneker’s + code. + </p> + <p> + What, meantime, should be his course? Should he write and warn Io about + Enderby? Could he make himself explicable without explaining too much? + After all, what right had he to assume that she would gratuitously + intermeddle in the disastrous fates of others? A rigorous respect for the + rights of privacy was written into the rules of the game as she played it. + He argued, with logic irrefutable as it was unconvincing, that this alone + ought to stay her hand; yet he knew, by the power of their own yearning, + one for the other, that in the great cause of love, whether for themselves + or for Camilla Van Arsdale and Willis Enderby, she would resistlessly + follow the impulse born and matured of her own passion. Had she not once + before denied love ... and to what end of suffering and bitter + enlightenment and long waiting not yet ended! Yes; she would send for + Willis Enderby. + </p> + <p> + Thus, with the insight of love, he read the heart of the loved one. + Self-interest lifted its specious voice now, in contravention. If she did + send, and if Judge Enderby went to Camilla Van Arsdale, as Banneker knew + surely that he would, and if Ely Ives’s spies discovered it, the way + was made plain and peaceful for Banneker. For, in that case, the + blunderbuss of blackmail would be held to Enderby’s head: he must, + perforce, retire from the race on whatever pretext he might devise, under + threat of a scandal which, in any case, would drive him out of public + life. Marrineal would be nominated, probably elected; control of The + Patriot would pass into Banneker’s hands; The Searchlight would thus + be held at bay until he and Io were married, for he could not really doubt + that she would marry him, even though there lay between them an + unexplained doubt and a seeming betrayal; and he could remould the + distorted and debased policies of The Patriot to his heart’s desire + of an honest newspaper fearlessly presenting and supporting truth as he + saw it. + </p> + <p> + All this at no price of treachery; merely by leaving matters which were, + in fact, no concern of his, to the arbitrament of whatever fates might + concern themselves with such troublous matters; it was just a matter of + minding his own business and assuming that Io Eyre would do likewise. So + argued self-interest, plausible, persuasive. He went to bed with the + argument still unsettled, and, because it seethed in his mind, reached out + to his reading-stand to cool his brain with the limpid philosophies of + Stevenson’s “Virginibus Puerisque.” + </p> + <p> + “The cruellest lies are often told in silence,” he read—the + very letters of the words seemed to scorch his eyes with prophetic fires. + “A man may have sat in a room for hours and not opened his teeth and + yet come out of that room a disloyal friend or a vile calumniator. And how + many loves have perished, because from—” + </p> + <p> + Banneker sprang from his bed, shaking. He dressed himself, consulted his + watch, wrote a brief, urgent line to Io, after ‘phoning for a taxi; + carried it to the station himself, assured, though only by a few minutes’ + margin, of getting it into the latest Western mail, returned to bed and + slept heavily and dreamlessly.... Not over the bodies of a loved friend + and an honored foe would Errol Banneker climb to a place of safety for Io + and triumph for himself. + </p> + <p> + Mail takes four days to reach Manzanita from New York. + </p> + <p> + Through the hot months The House With Three Eyes had kept its hospitable + orbs darkened of Saturday nights. Therefore, Banneker was free to spend + his week-ends at The Retreat, and his Friday and Saturday mail were + forwarded to the nearest country post-office, whither he sent for it, or + picked it up on his way back to town. It was on Saturday evening that he + received the letter from Io, saying that she had written to Willis Enderby + to come on to Manzanita and let the eyes, for which he had filled life’s + whole horizon since first they met his, look on him once more before + darkness shut down on them forever. Her letter had crossed Banneker’s. + </p> + <p> + “I know that he will come,” she wrote. “He must come. It + would be too cruel ... and I know his heart.” + </p> + <p> + Eight-thirty-six in the evening! And Io’s letter to Enderby must + have reached him in New York that morning. He would be taking the fast + train for the West leaving at eleven. Banneker sent in a call on the + long-distance ‘phone for Judge Enderby’s house. The + twelve-minute wait was interminable to his grilling impatience. At length + the placid tones of Judge Enderby’s man responded. Yes; the Judge + was there. No; he couldn’t be disturbed on any account; very much + occupied. + </p> + <p> + “This is Mr. Banneker. I must speak to him for just a moment. It’s + vital.” + </p> + <p> + “Very sorry, sir,” responded the unmoved voice. “But + Judge Enderby’s orders was absloot. Not to be disturbed on any + account.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell him that Mr. Banneker has something of the utmost importance + to say to him before he leaves.” + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, sir. It’d be as much as my place is worth.” + </p> + <p> + Raging, Banneker nevertheless managed to control himself. “He is + leaving on a trip to-night, is he not?” + </p> + <p> + After some hesitation the voice replied austerely: “I believe he is, + sir. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker cursed Judge Enderby for a fool of rigid methods. It would be his + own fault. Let him go to his destruction, then. He, Banneker, had done all + that was possible. He sank into a sort of lethargy, brooding over the + fateful obstacles which had obstructed him in his self-sacrificing pursuit + of the right, as against his own dearest interests. He might telegraph Io; + but to what purpose? An idea flashed upon him; why not telegraph Enderby + at his home? He composed message after message; tore them up as saying too + much or too little; ultimately devised one that seemed to be sufficient, + and hurried to his car, to take it in to the local operator. When he + reached the village office it was closed. He hurried to the home of the + operator. Out. After two false trails, he located the man at a church + sociable, and got the message off. It was then nearly ten o’clock. + He had wasted precious moments in brooding. Well, he had done all and more + than could have been asked of him, let the event be what it would. + </p> + <p> + His night was a succession of forebodings, dreamed or half-wakeful. Spent + and dispirited, he rose at an hour quite out of accord with the habits of + The Retreat, sped his car to New York, and put his inquiry to Judge + Enderby’s man. + </p> + <p> + Yes; the telegram had arrived. In time? No; it was delivered twenty + minutes after the Judge had left for his train. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> + <p> + Sun-lulled into immobility, the desert around the lonely little station of + Manzanita smouldered and slumbered. Nothing was visibly changed from five + years before, when Banneker left, except that another agent, a + disillusioned-appearing young man with a corn-colored mustache, came forth + to meet the slow noon local, chuffing pantingly in under a bad head of + alkali-water steam. A lone passenger, obviously Eastern in mien and garb, + disembarked, and was welcomed by a dark, beautiful, harassed-looking girl + who had just ridden in on a lathered pony. The agent, a hopeful soul, + ambled within earshot. + </p> + <p> + “How is she?” he heard the man say, with the intensity of a + single thought, as the girl took his hand. Her reply came, encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + “As brave as ever. Stronger, a little, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “And she—the eyes?” + </p> + <p> + “She will be able to see you; but not clearly.” + </p> + <p> + “How long—” began the man, but his voice broke. He shook + in the bitter heat as if from some inner and deadly chill. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody can tell. She hoards her sight.” + </p> + <p> + “To see me?” he cried eagerly. “Have you told her?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that wise?” he questioned. “The shock—” + </p> + <p> + “I think that she suspects; she senses your coming. Her face has the + rapt expression that I have seen only when she plays. Has had since you + started. Yet there is no possible way in which she could have learned.” + </p> + <p> + “That is very wonderful,” said the stranger, in a hushed + voice. Then, hesitantly, “What shall I do, Io?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” came the girl’s clear answer. “Go to + her, that is all.” + </p> + <p> + Another horse was led forward and the pair rode away through the + glimmering heat. + </p> + <p> + It was a silent ride for Willis Enderby and Io. The girl was still a + little daunted at her own temerity in playing at fate with destinies as + big as these. As for Enderby, there was no room within his consciousness + for any other thought than that he was going to see Camilla Van Arsdale + again. + </p> + <p> + He heard her before he saw her. The rhythms of a song, a tender and gay + little lyric which she had sung to crowded drawing-rooms, but for him + alone, long years past, floated out to him, clear and pure, through the + clear, pure balm of the forest. He slipped quietly from his horse and saw + her, through the window, seated at her piano. + </p> + <p> + Unchanged! To his vision the years had left no impress on her. And Io, at + his side, saw too and marveled at the miracle. For the waiting woman + looked out of eyes as clear and untroubled as those of a child, softened + only with the questioning wistfulness of darkening vision. Suffering and + fortitude had etherealized the face back to youth, and that mysterious + expectancy which had possessed her for days had touched the curves of her + mouth to a wonderful tenderness, the softness of her cheek to a quickening + bloom. She turned her head slowly toward the door. Her lips parted with + the pressure of swift, small breaths. + </p> + <p> + Io felt the man’s tense body, pressed against her as if for support, + convulsed with a tremor which left him powerless. + </p> + <p> + “I have brought some one to you, Miss Camilla,” she said + clearly: and in the same instant of speaking, her word was crossed by the + other’s call: + </p> + <p> + “Willis!” + </p> + <p> + Sightless though she was, as Io knew, for anything not close before her + eyes, she came to him, as inevitably, as unerringly as steel to the + magnet, and was folded in his arms. Io heard his deep voice, vibrant + between desolation and passion: + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen years! My God, fifteen years!” + </p> + <p> + Io ran away into the forest, utterly glad with the joy of which she had + been minister. + </p> + <p> + Willis Enderby stayed five days at Manzanita; five days of ecstasy, of + perfect communion, bought from the rapacious years at the price of his + broken word. For that he was willing to pay any price exacted, asking only + that he might pay it alone, that the woman of his long and self-denying + love might not be called upon to meet any smallest part of the debt. She + walked with him under the pines: he read to her: and there were long hours + together over the piano. It was then that there was born, out of Camilla + Van Arsdale’s love and faith and coming abnegation, her holy and + deathless song for the dead, to the noble words of the “Dominus + Illuminatio Mea,” which to-day, chanted over the coffins of + thousands, brings comfort and hope to stricken hearts. + </p> + <p> + “In the hour of death, after this life’s whim, When the heart + beats low, and the eyes grow dim, And pain has exhausted every limb— + The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.” + </p> + <p> + On the last day she told him that they would not meet again. Life had + given to her all and more than all she had dared ask for. He must go back + to his work in the world, to the high endeavor that was laid upon him as + an obligation of his power, and now of their love. He must write her; she + could not do without that, now; but guardedly, for other eyes than hers + must read his words to her. + </p> + <p> + “Think what it is going to be to me,” she said, “to + follow your course; to be able to pray for you, fighting. I shall take all + the papers. And any which haven’t your name in shall be burned at + once! How I shall be jealous even of your public who love and admire you! + But you have left me no room for any other jealousy....” + </p> + <p> + “I am coming back to you,” he said doggedly, at the final + moment of parting. “Sometime, Camilla.” + </p> + <p> + “You will be here always, in the darkness, with me. And I shall love + my blindness because it shuts out anything but you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Io rode with him to the station. On the way they discussed ways and means, + the household arrangements when Io should have to leave, the finding of a + companion, who should be at once nurse, secretary, and amanuensis for + Royce Melvin’s music. + </p> + <p> + “How she will sing now!” said Io. + </p> + <p> + As they drew near to the station, she put her hand on his horse’s + bridle. + </p> + <p> + “Did I do wrong to send for you, Cousin Billy?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He turned to her a visage transfigured. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t answer,” she said quickly. “I should + know, anyway. It’s her happiness I’m thinking of. It can’t + have been wrong to give so much happiness, for the rest of her life.” + </p> + <p> + “The rest of her life,” he echoed, in a hushed accent of + dread. + </p> + <p> + While Enderby was getting his ticket, Io waited on the front platform. A + small, wiry man came around the corner of the station, glanced at her, and + withdrew. Io had an uneasy notion of having seen him before somewhere. But + where, and when? Certainly the man was not a local habitant. Had his + presence, then, any significance for her or hers? Enderby returned, and + the two stood in the hard morning sunlight beneath the broad sign + inscribed with the station’s name. + </p> + <p> + The stranger appeared from behind a freight-car on a siding, and hurried + up to within a few yards of them. From beneath his coat he slipped a + blackish oblong. It gave forth a click, and, after swift manipulation, a + second click. Enderby started toward the snap-shotter who turned and ran. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that man?” he asked, whirling upon Io. + </p> + <p> + A gray veil seemed to her drawn down over his features. Or was it a mist + of dread upon Io’s own vision? + </p> + <p> + “I have seen him before,” she answered, groping. + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + Memory flashed one of its sudden and sure illuminations upon her: a + Saturday night at The House With Three Eyes; this little man coming in + with Tertius Marrineal; later, peering into the flowerful corner where she + sat with Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “He has something to do with The Patriot,” she answered + steadily. + </p> + <p> + “How could The Patriot know of my coming here?’ + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Io. She was deadly pale with a + surmise too monstrous for utterance. + </p> + <p> + He put it into words for her. + </p> + <p> + “Io, did you tell Errol Banneker that you were sending for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Even in the midst of the ruin which he saw closing in upon his career—that + career upon which Camilla Van Arsdale had newly built her last pride and + hope and happiness—he could feel for the agony of the girl before + him. + </p> + <p> + “He couldn’t have betrayed me!” cried Io: but, as she + spoke, the memory of other treacheries overwhelmed her. + </p> + <p> + The train rumbled in. Enderby stooped and kissed her forehead. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” he said gently, “I’m afraid you’ve + trusted him once too often.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX + </h2> + <p> + Among his various amiable capacities, Ely Ives included that of ceremonial + arranger. Festivities were his delight; he was ever on the lookout for + occasions of celebration: any excuse for a gratulatory function sufficed + him. Before leaving on his chase to Manzanita, he had conceived the festal + notion of a dinner in honor of Banneker, not that he cherished any love + for him since the episode of the bet with Delavan Eyre, but because his + shrewd foresight perceived in it a closer binding of the editor to the + wheels of the victorious Patriot. Also it might indirectly redound to the + political advantage of Marrineal. Put thus to that astute and aspiring + public servant, it enlisted his prompt support. He himself would give the + feast: no, on better thought, The Patriot should give it. It would be + choice rather than large: a hundred guests or so; mainly journalistic, the + flower of Park Row, with a sprinkling of important politicians and + financiers. The occasion? Why, the occasion was pat to hand! The + thousandth Banneker editorial to be published in The Patriot, the date of + which came early in the following month. + </p> + <p> + Had Ives himself come to Banneker with any such project, it would have + been curtly rejected. Ives kept in the background. The proposal came from + Marrineal, and in such form that for the recipient of the honor to refuse + it would have appeared impossibly churlish. Little though he desired or + liked such a function, Banneker accepted with a good grace, and set + himself to write an editorial, special to the event. Its title was, + “What Does Your Newspaper Mean to You?” headed with the + quotation from the Areopagitica: and he compressed into a single column + all his dreams and idealities of what a newspaper might be and mean to the + public which it sincerely served. Specially typed and embossed, it was + arranged as the dinner souvenir. + </p> + <p> + As the day drew near, Banneker had less and less taste for the ovation. + Forebodings had laid hold on his mind. Enderby had been back for five + days, and had taken no part whatever in the current political activity. + Conflicting rumors were in the air. The anti-Marrineal group was obviously + in a state of confusion and doubt: Marrineal’s friends were excited, + uncertain, expectant. + </p> + <p> + For three days Banneker had had no letter from Io. + </p> + <p> + The first intimation of what had actually occurred came to him just before + he left the office to dress for the dinner in his honor. Willis Enderby + had formally withdrawn from the governorship contest. His statement given + out for publication in next morning’s papers, was in the office. + Banneker sent for it. The reason given was formal and brief; nervous + breakdown; imperative orders from his physician. The whole thing was + grisly plain to Banneker, but he must have confirmation. He went to the + city editor. Had any reporter been sent to see Judge Enderby? + </p> + <p> + Yes: Dilson, one of the men frequently assigned to do Marrineal’s + and Ives’s special work had been sent to Enderby’s on the + previous day with specific instructions to ask a single question: “When + was the Judge going to issue his formal withdrawal”: Yes: that was + the precise form of the question: not, “Was he going to withdraw,” + but “When was he,” and so on. + </p> + <p> + The Judge would not answer, except to say that he might have a statement + to make within twenty-four hours. This afternoon (continued the city + editor) Enderby, it was understood, had telephoned to The Sphere and asked + that Russell Edmonds come to his house between four and five. No one else + would do. Edmonds had gone, had been closeted with Enderby for an hour, + and had emerged with the brief typed statement for distribution to all the + papers. He would not say a word as to the interview. Judge Enderby + absolutely denied himself to all callers. Physician’s orders again. + </p> + <p> + Banneker reflected that if the talk between Edmonds and Enderby had been + what he could surmise, the veteran would hardly attend the dinner in his + (Banneker’s) honor. Honor and Banneker would be irreconcilable + terms, to the stern judgment of Pop Edmonds. Had they, indeed, become + irreconcilable terms? It was a question which Banneker, in the turmoil of + his mind, could not face. On his way along Park Row he stopped and had a + drink. It seemed to produce no effect, so presently he had another. After + the fourth, he clarified and enlarged his outlook upon the whole question, + which he now saw in its entirety. He perceived himself as the victim of + unique circumstances, forced by the demands of honor into what might seem, + to unenlightened minds, dubious if not dishonorable positions, each one of + them in reality justified: yes, necessitated! Perhaps he was at fault in + his very first judgment; perhaps, had he even then, in his inexperience, + seen what he now saw so clearly in the light of experience, the deadly + pitfalls into which journalism, undertaken with any other purpose than the + simple setting forth of truth, beguiles its practitioners—perhaps he + might have drawn back from the first step of passive deception and have + resigned rather than been a party to the suppression of the facts about + the Veridian killings. Resigned? And forfeited all his force for + education, for enlightenment, for progress of thought and belief, exerted + upon millions of minds through The Patriot?... Would that not have been + the way of cowardice?... He longed to be left to himself. To think it all + out. What would Io say, if she knew everything? Io whose silence was + surrounding him with a cold terror.... He had to get home and dress for + that cursed dinner! + </p> + <p> + Marrineal had done the thing quite royally. The room was superb with + flowers; the menu the best devisable; the wines not wide of range, but + choice of vintage. The music was by professionals of the first grade, + willing to give their favors to these powerful men of the press. The + platform table was arranged for Marrineal in the presiding chair, flanked + by Banneker and the mayor: Horace Vanney, Gaines, a judge of the Supreme + Court, two city commissioners, and an eminent political boss. The Masters, + senior and junior, had been invited, but declined, the latter politely, + the former quite otherwise. Below were the small group tables, to be + occupied by Banneker’s friends and contemporaries of local + newspaperdom, and a few outsiders, literary, theatrical, and political. + When Banneker appeared in the reception-room where the crowd awaited, + smiling, graceful, vigorous, and splendid as a Greek athlete, the whole + assemblage rose in acclaim—all but one. Russell Edmonds, somber and + thoughtful, kept his seat. His leonine head drooped over his broad + shirt-bosom. + </p> + <p> + Said Mallory of The Ledger, bending over him: + </p> + <p> + “Look at Ban, Pop!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m looking,” gloomed Edmonds. + </p> + <p> + “What’s behind that smile? Something frozen. What’s the + matter with him?” queried the observant Mallory. + </p> + <p> + “Too much success.” + </p> + <p> + “It’ll be too much dinner if he doesn’t look out,” + remarked the other. “He’s trying to match cocktails with every + one that comes up.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t make a bit of difference,” muttered the veteran. + “He’s all steel. Cold steel. Can’t touch him.” + </p> + <p> + Marrineal led the way out of the ante-room to the banquet, escorting + Banneker. Never had the editor of The Patriot seemed to be more completely + master of himself. The drink had brightened his eyes, brought a warm flush + to the sun-bronze of his cheek, lent swiftness to his tongue. He was + talking brilliantly, matching epigrams with the Great Gaines, shrewdly + poking good-natured fun at the stolid and stupid mayor, holding his and + the near-by tables in spell with reminiscences in which so many of them + shared. Some wondered how he would have anything left for his speech. + </p> + <p> + While the game course was being served, Ely Ives was summoned outside. + Banneker, whose faculties had taken on a preternatural acuteness, saw, + when he returned, that his face had whitened and sharpened; watched him + write a note which he folded and pinned before sending it to Marrineal. In + the midst of a story, which he carried without interruption, the guest of + honor perceived a sort of glaze settle over his chief’s immobile + visage; the next moment he had very slightly shaken his head at Ives. + Banneker concluded his story. Marrineal capped it with another. Ives, + usually abstemious as befits one who practices sleight-of-hand and brain, + poured his empty goblet full of champagne and emptied it in long, eager + draughts. The dinner went on. + </p> + <p> + The ices were being cleared away when a newspaper man, not in evening + clothes, slipped in and talked for a moment with Mr. Gordon of The Ledger. + Presently another quietly appropriated a seat next to Van Cleve of The + Sphere. The tidings, whatever they were, spread. Then, the important men + of the different papers gathered about Russell Edmonds. They seemed to be + putting to him brief inquiries, to which he answered with set face and + confirming nods. With his quickened faculties, Banneker surmised one of + those inside secrets of journalism so often sacredly kept, though a + hundred men know them, of which the public reads only the obvious facts, + the empty shell. Now and again he caught a quick and veiled glance of + incomprehension of doubt, of incredulity, cast at him. + </p> + <p> + He chattered on. Never did he talk more brilliantly. + </p> + <p> + Coffee. Presently there would be cigars. Then Marrineal would introduce + him, and he would say to these men, this high and inner circle of + journalism, the things which he could not write for his public, which he + could present to them alone, since they alone would understand. It was to + be his <i>magnum opus</i>, that speech. For a moment he had lost physical + visualization in mental vision. When again he let his eyes rest on the + scene before him, he perceived that a strange thing had happened. The + table at which Van Cleve had sat, with seven others, was empty. In the + same glance he saw Mr. Gordon rise and quietly walk out, followed by the + other newspaper men in the group. Two politicians were left. They moved + close to each other and spoke in whispers, looking curiously at Banneker. + </p> + <p> + What manner of news could that have been, brought in by the working + newspaper man, thus to depopulate a late-hour dining-table? Had the world + turned upside down? + </p> + <p> + Below him, and but a few paces distant, Tommy Burt was seated. When he, + too, got slowly to his feet, Banneker leaned across the strewn, white + napery toward him. + </p> + <p> + “What’s up, Tommy?” + </p> + <p> + For an instant the star reporter stopped, seemed to turn an answer over in + his mind, then shook his head, and, with an unfathomable look of + incredulity and shrinking, went his way. Bunny Fitch followed; Fitch, the + slave of his paper’s conventions, the man without standards other + than those which were made for him by the terms of his employment, who + would go only because his proprietors would have him go: and the grin + which he turned up to Banneker was malignant and scornful. Already the + circle about Ely Ives, who was still drinking eagerly, had melted away. + Glidden, Mallory, Gale, Andreas, and a dozen others of his oldest + associates were at the door, not talking as they would have done had some + “big story” broken at that hour, but moving in a chill silence + and purposefully like men seeking relief from an unendurable atmosphere. + The deadly suspicion of the truth struck in upon the guest of honor; they, + his friends, were going because they could no longer take part in honoring + him. His mind groped, terrified and blind, among black shadows. + </p> + <p> + Marrineal, for once allowing discomposure to ruffle his imperturbability, + rose to check the exodus. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen! One moment, if you please. As soon as—” + </p> + <p> + The rest was lost to Banneker as he beheld Edmonds rear his spare form up + from his chair a few paces away. Reckless of ceremony now, the central + figure of the feast rose. + </p> + <p> + “Edmonds! Pop!” + </p> + <p> + The veteran stopped, turning the slow, sad judgment of his eyes upon the + other. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” appealed Banneker. “What’s happened? + Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Willis Enderby is dead.” + </p> + <p> + The query, which forced itself from Banneker’s lips, was a + self-accusation. “By his own hand?” + </p> + <p> + “By yours,” answered Edmonds, and strode from the place. + </p> + <p> + Groping, Banneker’s fingers encountered a bottle, closed about it, + drew it in. He poured and drank. He thought it wine. Not until the reeking + stab of brandy struck to his brain did he realize the error.... All right. + Brandy. He needed it. He was going to make a speech. What speech? How did + it begin.... What was this that Marrineal was saying? “In view of + the tragic news.... Call off the speech-making?” Not at all! He, + Banneker, must have his chance. He could explain everything. + </p> + <p> + Brilliantly, convincingly to his own mind, he began. It was all right; + only the words in their eagerness to set forth the purity of his motives, + the unimpeachable rectitude of his standards, became confused. Somebody + was plucking at his arm. Ives? All right? Ives was a good fellow, after + all.... Yes: he’d go home—with Ives. Ives would understand. + </p> + <p> + All the way back to The House With Three Eyes he explained himself; any + fair-minded man would see that he had done his best. Ives was fair-minded; + he saw it. Ives was a man of judgment. Therefore, when he suggested bed, + he must be right. Very weary, Banneker was. He felt very, very wretched + about Enderby. He’d explain it all to Enderby in the morning—no: + couldn’t do that, though. Enderby was dead. Queer idea, that! What + was it that violent-minded idiot, Pop Edmonds, had said? He’d settle + with Pop in the morning. Now he’d go to sleep.... + </p> + <p> + He woke to utter misery. In the first mail came the letter, now expected, + from Io. It completed the catastrophe in which his every hope was swept + away. + </p> + <p> + I have tried to make myself believe (she wrote) that you could not have + Betrayed him; that you would not, at least, have let me, who loved you, + be, unknowingly, the agent of his destruction. But the black record comes + back to me. The Harvey Wheelwright editorial, which seemed so light a + thing, then. The lie that beat Robert Laird. The editorial that you dared + not print, after promising. All of one piece. How could I ever have + trusted you! + </p> + <p> + Oh, Ban, Ban! When I think of what we have been to each other; how gladly, + how proudly, I gave myself to you, to find you unfaithful! Is that the + price of success? And unfaithful in such a way! If you had been untrue to + me in the conventional sense, I think it would have been a small matter + compared to this betrayal. That would have been a thing of the senses, a + wound to the lesser part of our love. But this—Couldn’t you + see that our relation demanded more of faith, of fidelity, than marriage, + to justify it and sustain it; more idealism, more truth, more loyalty to + what we were to each other? And now this! + </p> + <p> + If it were I alone that you have betrayed, I could bear my own remorse; + perhaps even think it retribution for what I have done. But how can I—and + how can you—bear the remorse of the disaster that will fall upon + Camilla Van Arsdale, your truest friend? What is there left to her, now + that the man she loves is to be hounded out of public life by + blackmailers? I have not told her. I have not been able to tell her. + Perhaps he will write her, himself. How can she bear it! I am going away, + leaving a companion in charge of her. + </p> + <p> + Camilla Van Arsdale! One last drop of bitterness in the cup of suffering. + Neither she nor Io had, of course, learned of Enderby’s death, and + could not for several days, until the newspapers reached them. Banneker + perceived clearly the thing that was laid upon him to do. He must go out + to Manzanita and take the news to her. That was part of his punishment. He + sent a telegram to Mindle, his factotum on the ground. + </p> + <p> + Hold all newspapers from Miss C. until I get there, if you have to rob + mails. E.B. + </p> + <p> + Without packing his things, without closing his house, without resigning + his editorship, he took the next train for Manzanita. Io, coming East, and + still unaware of the final tragedy, passed him, halfway. + </p> + <p> + While the choir was chanting, over the body of Willis Enderby, the solemn + glory of Royce Melvin’s funeral hymn, the script of which had been + found attached to his last statement, Banneker, speeding westward, was + working out, in agony of soul, a great and patient penance, for his own + long observance, planning the secret and tireless ritual through which + Camilla Van Arsdale should keep intact her pure and long delayed happiness + while her life endured. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX + </h2> + <p> + A dun pony ambled along the pine-needle-carpeted trail leading through the + forest toward Camilla Van Arsdale’s camp, comfortably shaded against + the ardent power of the January sun. Behind sounded a soft, rapid padding + of hooves. The pony shied to the left with a violence which might have + unseated a less practiced rider, as, with a wild whoop, Dutch Pete came by + at full gallop. Pete had been to a dance at the Sick Coyote on the + previous night which had imperceptibly merged itself into the present + morning, and had there imbibed enough of the spirit of the occasion to + last him his fifteen miles home to his ranch. Now he pulled up and waited + for the slower rider to overtake him. + </p> + <p> + “Howdy, Ban!” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Pete.” + </p> + <p> + “How’s the lady gettin’ on?” + </p> + <p> + “Not too well.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t see much of anythin’, huh?” + </p> + <p> + “No: and never will again.” + </p> + <p> + “Sho! Well, I don’t figger out as I’d want to live long + in that fix. How long does the doc give her, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps six months; perhaps a year. She isn’t afraid to die; + but she’s hanging to life just as long as she can. She’s a + game one, Pete.” + </p> + <p> + “And how long will you be with us, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m likely to be around quite a while yet.” + </p> + <p> + Dutch Pete, thoroughly understanding, reflected that here was another game + one. But he remarked only that he’d like to drop in on Miss K’miller + next time he rode over, with a bit of sage honey that he’d saved out + for her. + </p> + <p> + “She’ll be glad to see you,” returned the other. “Only, + don’t forget, Pete; not a word about anything except local stuff.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” agreed Pete with that unquestioning acceptance of + another’s reasons for secrecy which marks the frontiersman. “Say, + Ban,” he added, “you ain’t much of an advertisement for + Manzanita as a health resort, yourself. Better have that doc stick his + head in your mouth and look at your insides.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker raised tired eyes and smiled. “Oh, I’m all right,” + he replied listlessly. + </p> + <p> + “Come to next Saturday’s dance at the Coyote; that’ll + put dynamite in your blood,” prescribed the other as he spurred his + horse on. + </p> + <p> + Banneker had no need to turn the dun pony aside to the branch trail that + curved to the door of his guest; the knowing animal took it by habitude, + having traversed it daily for a long time. It was six months since + Banneker had bought him: six months and a week since Willis Enderby had + been buried. And the pony’s rider had in his pocket a letter, of + date only four days old, from Willis Enderby to Camilla Van Arsdale. It + was dated from the Governor’s Mansion, Albany, New York. Banneker + had written it himself, the night before. He had also composed nearly a + column of supposed Amalgamated Wire report, regarding the fight for and + against Governor Enderby’s reform measures, which he would read + presently to Miss Van Arsdale from the dailies just received. As he + dismounted, the clear music of her voice called: + </p> + <p> + “Any mail, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Letter from Albany.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me open it myself,” she cried jealously. + </p> + <p> + He delivered it into her hands: this was part of the ritual. She ran her + fingers caressingly over it, as if to draw from it the hidden sweetness of + her lover’s strength, which must still be only half-expressed, + because the words were to be translated through another’s reading; + then returned it to its real author. + </p> + <p> + “Read it slowly, Ban,” she commanded softly. + </p> + <p> + Having completed the letter, his next process was to run through the + papers, giving in full any news or editorials on State politics. This was + a task demanding the greatest mental concentration and alertness, for he + had built up a contemporary history out of his imagination, and must keep + all the details congruous and logical. Several times, with that uncanny + retentiveness of memory developed in the blind, she had all but caught + him; but each time his adroitness saved the day. Later, while he was at + work in the room which she had set aside for his daily writing, she would + answer the letter on the typewriter, having taught herself to write by + position and touch, and he would take her reply for posting. Her nurse and + companion, an elderly woman with a natural aptitude for silence and + discretion, was Banneker’s partner in the secret. The third member + of the conspiracy was the physician who came once a week from Angelica + City because he himself was a musician and this slowly and courageously + dying woman was Royce Melvin. Between them they hedged her about with the + fiction that victoriously defied grief and defeated death. + </p> + <p> + Camilla Van Arsdale got up from her couch and walked with confident + footsteps to the piano. + </p> + <p> + “Ban,” she said, seating herself and letting her fingers run + over the keys, “can’t you substitute another word for ‘muffled’ + in the third line? It comes on a high note—upper g—and I want + a long, not a short vowel sound.” + </p> + <p> + “How would ‘silenced’ do?” he offered, after + studying the line. + </p> + <p> + “Beautifully. You’re a most amiable poet! Ban, I think your + verses are going to be more famous than my music.” + </p> + <p> + “Never that,” he denied. “It’s the music that + makes them.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard from Mr. Gaines yet about the essays?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He’s taking them. He wants to print two in each issue + and call them ‘Far Perspectives.’” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, good!” she cried. “But, Ban, fine as your work is, + it seems a terrible waste of your powers to be out here. You ought to be + in New York, helping the governor put through his projects.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know, the doctor won’t give me my release.” + </p> + <p> + (Presently he must remember to have a coughing spell. He coughed hollowly + and well, thanks to assiduous practice. This was part of the grim and + loving comedy of deception: that he had been peremptorily ordered back to + Manzanita on account of “weak lungs,” with orders to live in + his open shack until he had gained twenty pounds. He was gaining, but with + well-considered slowness.) + </p> + <p> + “But when you can, you’ll go back and help him, even if I’m + not here to know about it, won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes: I’ll go back to help him when I can,” he + promised, as heartily as if he had not made the same promise each time + that the subject came up. There was still a good deal of the wistful child + about the dying woman. + </p> + <p> + Out from that forest hermitage where the two worked, one in serene though + longing happiness, the other under the stern discipline of loss and + self-abnegation, had poured, in six short months, a living current of song + which had lifted the fame of Royce Melvin to new heights: her fame only, + for Banneker would not use his name to the words that rang with a pure and + vivid melody of their own. Herein, too, he was paying his debt to Willis + Enderby, through the genius of the woman who loved him; preserving that + genius with the thin, lustrous, impregnable fiction of his own making + against threatening and impotent truth. + </p> + <p> + Once, when Banneker had brought her a lyric, alive with the sweetness of + youth and love in the great open spaces, she had said: + </p> + <p> + “Ban, shall we call it ‘Io?’” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it would do,” he said with an effort. + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + “Traveling in the tropics.” + </p> + <p> + “You try so hard to keep the sadness out of your voice when you + speak of her,” said Camilla sorrowfully. “But it’s + always there. Isn’t there anything I can do?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. There’s nothing anybody can do.” + </p> + <p> + The blind woman hesitated. “But you care for her still, don’t + you, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Care! Oh, my God!” whispered Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “And she cares. I know she cared when she was here. Io isn’t + the kind of woman to forget easily. She tried once, you know.” Miss + Van Arsdale smiled wanly. “Why doesn’t she ever say anything + of you in her letters?” + </p> + <p> + “She does.” + </p> + <p> + “Very little.” (Io’s letters, passing through Banneker’s + hands were carefully censored, of necessity, to forefend any allusion to + the tragedy of Willis Enderby, often to the extent of being rewritten + complete. It now occurred to Banneker that he had perhaps overdone the + matter of keeping his own name out of them.) “Ban,” she + continued wistfully, “you haven’t quarreled, have you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Miss Camilla. We haven’t quarreled.” + </p> + <p> + “Then <i>what</i> is it, Ban? I don’t want to pry; you know me + well enough to be sure of that. But if I could only know before the end + comes that you two—I wish I could read your face. It’s a + helpless thing, being blind.” This was as near a complaint as he had + ever heard her utter. + </p> + <p> + “Io’s a rich woman, Miss Camilla,” he said desperately. + </p> + <p> + “What of it?” + </p> + <p> + “How could I ask her to marry a jobless, half-lunged derelict?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Have</i> you asked her?” + </p> + <p> + He was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Ban, does she know why you’re here?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; she knows.” + </p> + <p> + “How bitter and desolate your voice sounds when you say that! And + you want me to believe that she knows and still doesn’t come to you?” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn’t know that I’m—ill,” he said, + hating himself for the necessity of pretense with Camilla Van Arsdale. + </p> + <p> + “Then I shall tell her.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he controverted with finality, “I won’t + allow it.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose it turned out that this were really the right path for you + to travel,” she said after a pause; “that you were going to do + bigger things here than you ever could do with The Patriot? I believe it’s + going to be so, Ban; that what you are doing now is going to be your true + success.” + </p> + <p> + “Success!” he cried. “Are you going to preach success to + me? If ever there was a word coined in hell—I’m sorry, Miss + Camilla,” he broke off, mastering himself. + </p> + <p> + She groped her way to the piano, and ran her fingers over the keys. + “There is work, anyway,” she said with sure serenity. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; there’s work, thank God!” + </p> + <p> + Work enough there was for him, not only in his writing, for which he had + recovered the capacity after a long period of stunned inaction, but in the + constant and unwearied labor of love in building and rebuilding, + fortifying and extending, that precarious but still impregnable bulwark of + falsehood beneath whose protection Camilla Van Arsdale lived and was happy + and made the magic of her song. Illusion! Banneker wondered whether any + happiness were other than illusion, whether the illusion of happiness were + not better than any reality. But in the world of grim fact which he had + accepted for himself was no palliating mirage. Upon him “the + illusive eyes of hope” were closed. + </p> + <p> + While Banneker was practicing his elaborate deceptions, Miss Van Arsdale + had perpetrated a lesser one of her own, which she had not deemed it wise + to reveal to him in their conversation about Io. Some time before that she + had written to her former guest a letter tactfully designed to lay a + foundation for resolving the difficulty or misunderstanding between the + lovers. In the normal course of events this would have been committed for + mailing to Banneker, who would, of course, have confiscated it. But, as it + chanced, it was hardly off the typewriter when Dutch Pete dropped in for a + friendly call while Banneker was at the village, and took the missive with + him for mailing. It traveled widely, amassed postmarks and forwarding + addresses, and eventually came to its final port. + </p> + <p> + Worn out with the hopeless quest of forgetfulness in far lands, Io Eyre + came back to New York. It was there that the long pursuit of her by + Camilla Van Arsdale’s letter ended. Bewilderment darkened Io’s + mind as she read, to be succeeded by an appalled conjecture; Camilla Van + Arsdale’s mind had broken down under her griefs. What other + hypothesis could account for her writing of Willis Enderby as being still + alive? And of her having letters from him? To the appeal for Banneker + which, concealed though it was, underlay the whole purport of the writing, + Io closed her heart, seared by the very sight of his name. She would have + torn the letter up, but something impelled her to read it again; some hint + of a pregnant secret to be gleaned from it, if one but held the clue. Hers + was a keen and thoughtful mind. She sent it exploring through the devious + tangle of the maze wherein she and Banneker, Camilla Van Arsdale and + Willis Enderby had been so tragically involved, and as she patiently + studied the letter as possible guide there dawned within her a glint of + the truth. It began with the suspicion, soon growing to conviction, that + the writer of those inexplicable words was not, could not be insane; the + letter breathed a clarity of mind, an untroubled simplicity of heart, a + quiet undertone of happiness, impossible to reconcile with the picture of + a shattered and grief-stricken victim. Yet Io had, herself, written to + Miss Van Arsdale as soon as she knew of Judge Enderby’s death, + pouring out her heart for the sorrow of the woman who as a stranger had + stood her friend, whom, as she learned to know her in the close + companionship of her affliction, she had come to love; offering to return + at once to Manzanita. To that offer had come no answer; later she had had + a letter curiously reticent as to Willis Enderby. (Banneker, in his + epistolary personification of Miss Van Arsdale had been perhaps + overcautious on this point.) Io began to piece together hints and clues, + as in a disjected puzzle:—Banneker’s presence in Manzanita—Camilla’s + blindness.—Her inability to know, except through the medium of + others, the course of events.—The bewildering reticence and hiatuses + in the infrequent letters from Manzanita, particularly in regard to Willis + Enderby.—This calm, sane, cheerful view of him as a living being, a + present figure in his old field of action.—The casual mention in an + early letter that all of Miss Van Arsdale’s reading and most of her + writing was done through the nurse or Banneker, mainly the latter, though + she was mastering the art of touch-writing on the typewriter. The very + style of the earlier letters, as she remembered them, was different. And + just here flashed the thought which set her feverishly ransacking the + portfolio in which she kept her old correspondence. There she found an + envelope with a Manzanita postmark dated four months earlier. The typing + of the two letters was not the same. + </p> + <p> + Groping for some aid in the murk, Io went to the telephone and called up + the editorial office of The Sphere, asking for Russell Edmonds. Within two + hours the veteran had come to her. + </p> + <p> + “I have been wanting to see you,” he said at once. + </p> + <p> + “About Mr. Banneker?” she queried eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “No. About The Searchlight.” + </p> + <p> + “The Searchlight? I don’t understand, Mr. Edmonds.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t we be open with each other, Mrs. Eyre?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely, so far as I am concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I want to tell you that you need have no fear as to what The + Searchlight may do.” + </p> + <p> + “Still I don’t understand. Why should I fear it?” + </p> + <p> + “The scandal—manufactured, of course—which The + Searchlight had cooked up about you and Mr. Banneker before Mr. Eyre’s + death.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely there was never anything published. I should have heard of + it.” + </p> + <p> + “No; there wasn’t. Banneker stopped it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say that you knew nothing of this, Mrs. Eyre?” + he said, the wonder in his face answering the bewilderment in hers. + “Didn’t Banneker tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “Never a word.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I suppose he wouldn’t,” ruminated the veteran. + “That would be like Ban—the old Ban,” he added sadly. + “Mrs. Eyre, I loved that boy,” he broke out, his stern and + somber face working. “There are times even now when I can scarcely + make myself believe that he did what he did.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait,” pleaded Io. “How did he stop The Searchlight?” + </p> + <p> + “By threatening Bussey with an exposé that would have blown him out + of the water. Blackmail, if you like, Mrs. Eyre, and not of the most + polite kind.” + </p> + <p> + “For me,” whispered Io. + </p> + <p> + “He held that old carrion-buzzard, Bussey, up at the muzzle of The + Patriot as if it were a blunderbuss. It was loaded to kill, too. And then,” + pursued Edmonds, “he paid the price. Marrineal got out his little + gun and held him up.” + </p> + <p> + “Held Ban up? What for? How could he do that? All this is a riddle + to me, Mr. Edmonds.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you really want to know?” asked the other with a + touch of grimness. “It won’t be pleasant hearing.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got to know. Everything!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Here’s the situation. Banneker points his gun, The + Patriot, at Bussey. ‘Be good or I’ll shoot,’ he says. + Marrineal learns of it, never mind how. He points <i>his</i> gun at Ban. + ‘Be good, or I’ll shoot,’ says he. And there you are!” + </p> + <p> + “But what was his gun? And why need he threaten Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you see, Mrs. Eyre, about that time things were coming to an + issue between Ban and Marrineal. Ban was having a hard fight for the + independence of his editorial page. His strongest hold on Marrineal was + Marrineal’s fear of losing him. There were plenty of opportunities + open to a Banneker. Well, when Marrineal got Ban where he couldn’t + resign, Ban’s hold was gone. That was Marrineal’s gun.” + </p> + <p> + “Why couldn’t he resign?” asked Io, white-lipped. + </p> + <p> + “If he quit The Patriot he could no longer hold Bussey, and The + Searchlight could print what it chose. You see?” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Io, very low. “Oh, why couldn’t I + have seen before!” + </p> + <p> + “How could you, if Ban told you nothing?” reasoned Edmonds. + “The blame of the miserable business isn’t yours. Sometimes I + wonder if it’s anybody’s; if the newspaper game isn’t + just too strong for us who try to play it. As for The Searchlight, I’ve + since got another hold on Bussey which will keep him from making any + trouble. That’s what I wanted to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what does it matter! What does it matter!” she moaned. + She crossed to the window, laid her hot and white face against the cool + glass, pressed her hands in upon her temples, striving to think + connectedly. “Then whatever he did on The Patriot, whatever + compromises he yielded to or—or cowardices—” she winced + at the words—“were done to save his place; to save me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid so,” returned the other gently. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what he’s doing now?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I understand he’s back at Manzanita.” + </p> + <p> + “He is. And from what I can make out,” she added fiercely, + “he is giving up his life to guarding Miss Van Arsdale from breaking + her heart, as she will do, if she learns of Judge Enderby’s death—Oh!” + she cried, “I didn’t mean to say that! You must forget that + there was anything said.” + </p> + <p> + “No need. I know all that story,” he said gravely. “That + is what I couldn’t forgive in Ban. That he should have betrayed Miss + Van Arsdale, his oldest friend. That is the unpardonable treachery.” + </p> + <p> + “To save me,” said Io. + </p> + <p> + “Not even for that. He owed more to her than to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t believe that he did it!” she wailed. “To + use my letter to set spies on Cousin Billy and ruin him—it isn’t + Ban. It isn’t!” + </p> + <p> + “He did it, and, when it was too late, he tried to stop it.” + </p> + <p> + “To stop it?” She looked her startled query at him. “How + do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “Last week,” explained Edmonds, “Judge Enderby’s + partner sent for me. He had been going over some papers and had come upon + a telegram from Banneker urging Enderby not to leave without seeing him. + The telegram must have been delivered very shortly after the Judge left + for the train.” + </p> + <p> + “Telegram? Why a telegram? Wasn’t Ban in town?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He was down in Jersey. At The Retreat.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” gasped Io. “At The Retreat! Then my letter would + have been forwarded to him there. He couldn’t have got it at the + same time that Cousin Billy got the one I sent him.” She gripped + Russell Edmonds’s wrists in fierce, strong hands. “What if he + hadn’t known in time? What if, the moment he did know, he did his + best to stop Cousin Billy from starting, with that telegram?” + Suddenly the light died out of her face. “But then how would that + loathsome Mr. Ives have known that he was going, unless Ban betrayed him?” + </p> + <p> + “Easily enough,” returned the veteran. “He had a report + from his detectives, who had been watching Enderby for months.... Mrs. + Eyre, I wish you’d give me a drink. I feel shaky.” + </p> + <p> + She left him to give the order. When she returned, they had both steadied + down. Carefully, and with growing conviction, they gathered the evidence + into something like a coherent whole. At the end, Io moaned: + </p> + <p> + “The one thing I can’t bear is that Cousin Billy died, + believing that of Ban.” + </p> + <p> + She threw herself upon the broad lounge, prone, her face buried in her + arms. The veteran of hundreds of fights, brave and blind, righteous and + mistaken, crowned with fleeting victories, tainted with irremediable + errors, stood silent, perplexed, mournful. He walked slowly over to where + the girl was stretched, and laid a clumsy, comforting hand on her + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you’d cry for me, too,” he said huskily. “I’m + too old.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI + </h2> + <p> + Every Saturday the distinguished physician from Angelica City came to + Manzanita on the afternoon train, spent two or three hours at Camilla Van + Arsdale’s camp, and returned in time to catch Number Seven back. No + imaginable fee would have induced him to abstract one whole day from his + enormous practice for any other patient. But he was himself an ardent + vocal amateur, and to keep Royce Melvin alive and able to give forth her + songs to the world was a special satisfaction to his soul. Moreover, he + knew enough of Banneker’s story to take pride in being partner in + his plan of deception and self-sacrifice. He pretended that it was a + needed holiday for him: his bills hardly defrayed the traveling expense. + </p> + <p> + Now, riding back with Banneker, he meditated a final opinion, and out of + that opinion came speech. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Banneker, they ought to give you and me a special niche in the + Hall of Fame,” he said. + </p> + <p> + A rather wan smile touched briefly Banneker’s lips. “I believe + that my ambitions once reached even that far,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The other reflected upon the implied tragedy of a life, so young, for + which ambition was already in the past tense, as he added: + </p> + <p> + “In the musical section. We’ve got our share in the nearest + thing to great music that has been produced in the America of our time. + You and I. Principally you.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker made a quick gesture of denial. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you owe to Camilla Van Arsdale, but you’ve + paid the debt. There won’t be much more to pay, Banneker.” + </p> + <p> + Banneker looked up sharply. + </p> + <p> + “No.” The visitor shook his graying head. “We’ve + performed as near a miracle as it is given to poor human power to perform. + It can’t last much longer.” + </p> + <p> + “How long?” + </p> + <p> + “A matter of weeks. Not more. Banneker, do you believe in a personal + immortality?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, either. I was thinking.... If it were so; when + she gets across, what she will feel when she finds her man waiting for + her. God!” He lifted his face to the great trees that moved and + murmured overhead. “How that heart of hers has sung to him all these + years!” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his voice and sent it rolling through the cathedral aisles of + the forest, in the superb finale of the last hymn. + </p> + <p> + “For even the purest delight may pall, And power must fail, and the + pride must fall And the love of the dearest friends grow small— But + the glory of the Lord is all in all.” + </p> + <p> + The great voice was lost in the sighing of the winds. They rode on, + thoughtful and speechless. When the physician turned to his companion + again, it was with a brisk change of manner. + </p> + <p> + “And now we’ll consider you.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to consider,” declared Banneker. + </p> + <p> + “Is your professional judgment better than mine?” retorted the + other. “How much weight have you lost since you’ve been out + here?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Find out. Don’t sleep very well, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not specially.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you do at night when you can’t sleep? Work?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Think.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor uttered a non-professional monosyllable. “What will you + do,” he propounded, waving his arm back along the trail toward the + Van Arsdale camp, “when this little game of yours is played out?” + </p> + <p> + “God knows!” said Banneker. It suddenly struck him that life + would be blank, empty of interest or purpose, when Camilla Van Arsdale + died, when there was no longer the absorbing necessity to preserve, intact + and impregnable, the fortress of love and lies wherewith he had surrounded + her. + </p> + <p> + “When this chapter is finished,” said the other, “you + come down to Angelica City with me. Perhaps we’ll go on a little + camping trip together. I want to talk to you.” + </p> + <p> + The train carried him away. Oppressed and thoughtful, Banneker walked + slowly across the blazing, cactus-set open toward his shack. There was + still the simple housekeeping work to be done, for he had left early that + morning. He felt suddenly spiritless, flaccid, too inert even for the + little tasks before him. The physician’s pronouncement had taken the + strength from him. Of course he had known that it couldn’t be very + long—but only a few weeks! + </p> + <p> + He was almost at the shack when he noticed that the door stood half ajar. + </p> + <p> + But here, where everything had been disorder, was now order. The bed was + made, the few utensils washed, polished, and hung up; on the table a + handful of the alamo’s bright leaves in a vase gave a touch of + color. + </p> + <p> + In the long chair (7 T 4031 of the Sears-Roebuck catalogue) sat Io. A book + lay on her lap, the book of “The Undying Voices.” Her eyes + were closed. Banneker reached out a hand to the door lintel for support. + </p> + <p> + A light tremor ran through Io’s body. She opened her eyes, and fixed + them on Banneker. She rose slowly. The book fell to the floor and lay open + between them. Io stood, her arms hanging straitly at her side, her whole + face a lovely and loving plea. + </p> + <p> + “Please, Ban!” she said, in a voice so little that it hardly + came to his ears. + </p> + <p> + Speech and motion were denied him, in the great, the incredible surprise + of her presence. + </p> + <p> + “Please, Ban, forgive me.” She was like a child, beseeching. + Her firm little chin quivered. Two great, soft, lustrous tears welled up + from the shadowy depths of the eyes and hung, gleaming, above the lashes. + “Oh, aren’t you going to speak to me!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + At that the bonds of his languor were rent. He leapt to her, heard the + broken music of her sob, felt her arms close about him, her lips seek his + and cling, loath to relinquish them even for the passionate murmurs of her + love and longing for him. + </p> + <p> + “Hold me close, Ban! Don’t ever let me go again! Don’t + ever let me doubt again!” + </p> + <p> + When, at length, she gently released herself, her foot brushed the fallen + book. She picked it up tenderly, and caressed its leaves as she adjusted + them. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t the Voices tell you that I’d come back, Ban?” + she asked. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “If they did, I couldn’t hear them.” + </p> + <p> + “But they sang to you,” she insisted gently. “They never + stopped singing, did they?” + </p> + <p> + “No. No. They never stopped singing.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah; then you ought to have known, Ban. And I ought to have known + that you couldn’t have done what I believed you had. Are you sure + you forgive me, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + She told him of what she had discovered, of the talk with Russell Edmonds + (“I’ve a letter from him for you, dearest one; he loves you, + too. But not as I do. Nobody could!” interjected Io jealously), of + the clue of the telegram. And he told her of Camilla Van Arsdale and the + long deception; and at that, for the first time since he knew her, she + broke down and gave herself up utterly to tears, as much for him as for + the friend whom he had so loyally loved and served. When it was over and + she had regained command of herself, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Now you must take me to her.” + </p> + <p> + So once more they rode together into the murmurous peace of the forest. Io + leaned in her saddle as they drew near the cabin, to lay a hand on her + lover’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Once, a thousand years ago, Ban,” she said, “when love + came to me, I was a wicked little infidel and would not believe. Not in + the Enchanted Canyon, nor in the Mountains of Fulfillment, nor in the + Fadeless Gardens where the Undying Voices sing. Do you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I not!” whispered Ban, turning to kiss the fingers that + tightened on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “And—and I blasphemed and said there was always a serpent in + every Paradise, and that Experience was a horrid hag, with a bony finger + pointing to the snake.... This is my recantation, Ban. I know now that you + were the true Prophet; that Experience has shining wings and eyes that can + lock to the future as well as the past, and immortal Hope for a lover. And + that only they two can guide to the Mountains of Fulfillment. Is it + enough, Ban?” + </p> + <p> + “It is enough,” he answered with grave happiness. + </p> + <p> + “Listen!” exclaimed Io. + </p> + <p> + The sound of song, tender and passionate and triumphant, came pulsing + through the silence to meet them as they rode on. + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + +<pre> + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Success, by Samuel Hopkins Adams + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUCCESS *** + +***** This file should be named 15431-h.htm or 15431-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/4/3/15431/ + +Produced by Robert Shimmin, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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