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diff --git a/15431.txt b/15431.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4029ffd --- /dev/null +++ b/15431.txt @@ -0,0 +1,24728 @@ +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: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUCCESS *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Shimmin, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + + Success + + BY SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS + + Author of "The Clarion," "Common Cause," etc. + + 1921 + + + + +CONTENTS + + PART I. ENCHANTMENT + + PART II. THE VISION + + PART III. FULFILLMENT + + + + +SUCCESS + + + + +PART I + +ENCHANTMENT + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +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. + +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 pinon, 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. + +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. + +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 _in petto_. 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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"You the main guy here?" + +The agent nodded. + +"Got a sore throat?" demanded the boy surlily. He started toward the +door. The agent made no move, but his eyes were attentive. + +"That'll be near enough," he said quietly. + +"Oh, we ain't on that lay," put in the grizzled man. He was quite +hoarse. "You needn't to be scared of us." + +"I'm not," agreed the agent. And, indeed, the fact was self-evident. + +"What about the pueblo yonder?" asked the man with a jerk of his head +toward the town. + +"The hoosegow is old and the sheriff is new." + +"I got ya," said the man, nodding. "We better be on our way." + +"I would think so." + +"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?" + +"Nothing doing." + +"Tightwad! How'd you like--" + +"If you're hungry, feel in your coat-pocket." + +"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." + +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. + +"How'd you know my feet was blistered?" + +"Been padding in the rain, haven't you?" + +"Have you been on the hoof, too?" asked the hobo quickly. + +The other smiled. + +"Say!" exclaimed the boy. "I bet he's Banneker. Are you?" he demanded. + +"That's my name." + +"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. + +"As you see it. Railroading." + +"A gay-cat," put in the boy with a touch of scorn. + +"You hold your fresh lip," his elder rebuked him. "This gent has treated +us _like_ a gent. But why? What's the idea? That's what I don't get." + +"Oh, some day I might want to run for Governor on the hobo ticket," +returned the unsmiling agent. + +"You get our votes. Well, so long and much obliged." + +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. + +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? + +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. + +"O. S.--G. I. No. 3 by at 10.46." + +"O. K.--D. S.," came the response. + +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. + +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-- + +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. + +The great engine of Number Three was yelling for help. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +Banneker came out of his chair with a spring. + +"Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!" screamed the strident voice. + +It was like an animal in pain and panic. + +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-- + +The answering signal from the dispatcher at Stanwood interrupted his +conjectures. + +"Number Three in trouble in the Cut," ticked Banneker fluently. "Think +help probably needed from you. Shall I go out?" + +"O. K.," came the answer. "Take charge. Bad track reported three miles +east may delay arrival." + +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! + +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. + +"Where are you hurt?" + +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." + +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. + +"They oughta be prosecuted," moaned the sufferer. "I'll soom. For ten +thousan' dollars. M'hand is smashed. Looka that! Smashed like a bug." + +Banneker caught the hand and expertly bound it, taking the man's name +and address as he worked. + +"Is it a bad wreck?" he asked. + +"It's hell. Look at m'hand! But I'll soom, all right. _I_'ll show'm ... +Oh! ... Cars are afire, too ... Oh-h-h! Where's a hospital?" + +He cursed weakly as Banneker, without answering, re-stowed his packet +and ran on. + +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. + +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 _melange_. 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. + +A panting and grimy conductor staggered toward it with a pail of water +from the engine. Banneker accosted him. + +"Any one in--" + +"Get outa my way!" gasped the official. + +"I'm agent at Manzanita." + +The conductor set down his pail. "O God!" he said. "Did you bring any +help?" + +"No, I'm alone. Any one in there?" He pointed to the flaming debris. + +"One that we know of. He's dead." + +"Sure?" cried Banneker sharply. + +"Look for yourself. Go the other side." + +Banneker looked and returned, white and set of face. "How many others?" + +"Seven, so far." + +"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. + +"There's a dozen that's hurt bad." + +"No use watering that mess," said Banneker. "It won't burn much further. +Wind's against it. Anybody left in the other smashed cars?" + +"Don't think so." + +"Got the names of the dead?" + +"Now, how would I have the time!" demanded the conductor resentfully. + +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. + +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 _abandon_; all but one, a blonde young girl whose upthrust +arm seemed to be reaching for something just beyond her grasp. + +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. + +"Doctor?" he inquired. + +The other did not even look up. "Don't bother me," he snapped. + +The station-agent pushed his first-aid packet into the old man's hands. + +"Good!" grunted the other. "Hold this fellow's head, will you? Hold it +hard." + +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. + +"He'll die, anyway," he said, and lifted his face. + +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. + +"Going to have hysterics?" demanded the old man, striking not so far +short of the truth. + +"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?" + +"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?" + +Banneker explained. "I'll be back in five minutes," he said and passed +into the subdued and tremulous crowd. + +On the outskirts loitered a lank, idle young man clad beyond the glories +of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck's highest-colored imaginings. + +"Hurt?" asked Banneker. + +"No," said the youth. + +"Can you run three miles?" + +"I fancy so." + +"Will you take an urgent message to be wired from Manzanita?" + +"Certainly," said the youth with good-will. + +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. + +"Answer?" asked the youth, unfurling his long legs. + +"No," returned Banneker, and the courier, tossing his coat off, took the +road. + +Banneker turned back to the improvised hospital. + +"I'm going to move these people into the cars," he said to the man in +charge. "The berths are being made up now." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He became aware of some one waiting at his elbow. The lank young man had +spoken to him twice. + +"Well?" said Banneker sharply. "Oh, it's you! How did you get back so +soon?" + +"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." + +From a cotton bag he discharged a miscellaneous heap of patent +preparations; salves, ointments, emollients, liniments, plasters. + +"All I could get," he explained. "No drug-store in the funny burg." + +"Thank you," said Banneker. "You're all right. Want another job?" + +"Certainly," said the lily of the field with undiminished good-will. + +"Go and help the white-whiskered old boy in the Pullman yonder." + +"Oh, he'd chase me," returned the other calmly. "He's my uncle. He +thinks I'm no use." + +"Does he? Well, suppose you get names and addresses of the slightly +injured for me, then. Here's your coat." + +"Tha-anks," drawled the young man. He was turning away to his new duties +when a thought struck him. "Making a list?" he asked. + +"Yes. For my report." + +"Got a name with the initials I. O. W.?" + +Banneker ran through the roster in the pocket-ledger. "Not yet. Some one +that's hurt?" + +"Don't know what became of her. Peach of a girl. Black hair, big, +sleepy, black eyes with a fire in 'em. Dressed _right_. 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." + +"Have you seen her since the smash?" + +"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." + +"Might have been you? How could--" + +"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. + +For a grisly instant Banneker thought of the one mangled +monstrosity--_that_ 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. + +"I'll look out for her," said he. "Probably she's forward somewhere." + +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. + +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. + +He hoped that the dead would not get wet. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Is there trouble on the line?" she asked in a voice of peculiar +clarity. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +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." + +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." + +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. + +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-- + +"Any one inside there?" + +"Yes," said Banneker, opening to face the bulky old man who had cared +for the wounded. "What's wanted?" + +Uninvited, and with an assured air, the visitor stepped in. + +"I am Horace Vanney," he announced. + +Banneker waited. + +"Do you know my name?" + +"No." + +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. + +"I do." + +"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." + +"Thank you," said Banneker politely. + +"And I can assure you that my commendation will carry weight. Weight, +sir." + +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. + +"Two of them are going home with me," said a voice. "Will you send these +wires to the addresses?" + +"All right," replied Banneker, "and thank you. Good-night." + +"Who was that?" barked Mr. Vanney, half rising. + +"A friend of mine." + +"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?" + +"No." + +"Don't tell me that it wasn't she! Don't try to tell me, for I won't +believe it." + +"I'm not trying to tell you anything," Banneker pointed out. + +"True; you're not. You're close-mouthed enough. But--Camilla Van +Arsdale! Incredible! Does she live here?" + +"Here or hereabouts." + +"You must give me the address. I must surely go and see her." + +"Are you a friend of Miss Van Arsdale?" + +"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?" + +"I don't think I said." + +"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." + +"See here, Mr. Vanney, Miss Van Arsdale is still something of an +invalid--" + +"After all these years," interposed the other, in the tone of one who +ruminates upon a marvel. + +"--and I happen to know that it isn't well for--that is, she doesn't +care to see strangers, particularly from New York." + +The old man stared. "Are you a gentleman?" he asked with abrupt +surprise. + +"A gentleman?" repeated Banneker, taken aback. + +"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." + +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. + +"All the serious ones, I think." + +"Was there a young girl among them, dark and good-looking, whose name +began--" + +"The one my addle-brained young nephew has been pestering me about? Miss +I. O. W.?" + +"Yes. He reported her to me." + +"I handled no such case that I recall. Now, as to your own helpfulness, +I wish to make clear that I appreciate it." + +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. + +"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. + +In this case the bill did not secure such acknowledgment. + +"You don't owe me anything," stated the agent. "I can't take this!" + +"What! Pride? Tut-tut." + +"Why not?" asked Banneker. + +Finding no immediate and appropriate answer to this simple question, Mr. +Vanney stared. + +"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." + +Mr. Vanney's cheek flushed. Was this composed young hireling making +sport of him? + +"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." + +"Then you ought to have better judgment," returned Banneker with such +candor and good-humor that the visitor was fairly discomfited. + +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. + +Hastily retrieving his yellow-back, which he subjected to some furtive +and occult manipulations, Mr. Vanney, after a few words, took his +departure. + +Banneker invited the newcomer to take the chair thus vacated. As he did +so he brushed something to the floor and picked it up. + +"Hello! What's this? Looks like a hundred-bucker. Yours?" He held out +the bill. + +Banneker shook his head. "Your uncle left it." + +"It isn't a habit of his," replied the other. + +"Give it to him for me, will you?" + +"Certainly. Any message?" + +"No." + +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?" + +"Yes." + +"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?" + +"No." + +"He will to-morrow." + +"I doubt it." + +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." + +"I won't." + +"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?" + +"I've been to Chicago." + +"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." + +"Maybe." + +"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." + +"It suits me here." + +"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." + +"All right." + +"And if there's anything I can do for you any time, drop me a line." + +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. + +"What store do you buy your clothes at?" + +"Store?" Cressey did not smile. "I don't buy 'em at a store. I have 'em +made by a tailor. Mertoun, 505 Fifth Avenue." + +"Would he make me a suit?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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 _right_, at Mertoun's. Ought to, too; they stick you +enough for it." + +"How much?" + +"Not much short of a hundred for a sack suit." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +They fell into friendly talk about the wreck. + +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. + +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 _magnum +opus_ 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. + +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. + +"I'm Gardner, of the Angelica City Herald," explained the untimely +visitor. + +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. + +"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." + +"It must be hard to do that," said Banneker interestedly, "when you +haven't seen any of it yourself." + +"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!" + +"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--" + +"Put it down?" queried the other with a quick look. "Oh, I see. Your +report for the company." + +"Well, I wasn't thinking of that." + +"Do you write other things?" asked the reporter carelessly. + +"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. + +"Ever try for the papers?" + +"Not yet. I've thought maybe I might get a chance sometime as a sort of +local correspondent around here," was the diffident reply. + +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. + +"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." + +"No. Well, I didn't write my--what I wrote, with any idea of getting it +printed." + +The newspaper man sighed wearily, sighed like a child and lied like a +man of duty. "I'd like to see it." + +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: + +"What do you call this stuff, anyway?" + +"Just putting down what I saw." + +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?" + +Banneker looked startled. "I don't know. It just struck me that is the +way a Pullman is." + +"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?" + +"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. + +Silence held the reader until he had concluded the seventh and last +sheet. Not looking at Banneker, he said: + +"So that's your notion of reporting the wreck of the swellest train that +crosses the continent, is it?" + +"It doesn't pretend to be a report," disclaimed the writer. "It's pretty +bad, is it?" + +"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." + +"If it's of any use to you--" + +"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?" + +"Nowhere. Everything's filled. But I can give you a hammock out in my +shack." + +"That's better. I'll take it. Thanks." + +Banneker kept his guest awake beyond the limits of decent hospitality, +asking him questions. + +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. + +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?" + +"No," answered the agent, "Not often. There were a pair yesterday +morning, but they went on." + +"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." + +Banneker investigated. Nothing was missing from within the shack. But +outside he made a distressing discovery. + +His molasses pie was gone. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"What a woman!" said the amateur nurse. + +"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. + +"Very much the chatelaine; grande dame and that sort of thing," pursued +the other. "One might almost think her English." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +They went out. "Chatelaine 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?" + +"The one at our suburban station chews tobacco and says 'Marm' through +his nose." + +Banneker emerged, seeking the conductor of the special with a message. + +"He is rather a beautiful young thing, isn't he?" she added. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Please!" + +The appeal went straight to Banneker's heart and quivered there, like a +soft flame, like music heard in an unrealizable dream. + +"Who are you?" he asked, and the voice said: + +"Don't hurt me." + +"Why should I?" returned Banneker stupidly. + +"Some one did," said the voice. + +"Who?" he demanded fiercely. + +"Won't you let me go?" pleaded the voice. + +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. + +"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. + +"You needn't be afraid," he stammered. + +"I've never been afraid before," she said, hanging her weight away from +him. "Won't you let me go?" + +His grip relaxed slightly, then tightened again. "Where to?" + +"I don't know," said the appealing voice mournfully. + +An inspiration came to Banneker. "Are you afraid of me?" he asked +quietly. + +"Of every thing. Of the night." + +He pressed the flash into her hand, turning the light upon himself. +"Look," he said. + +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. + +He heard a little, soft sigh. "I don't know you," said the voice. "Do +I?" + +"No," he answered soothingly as if to a child. "I'm the station-agent +here. You must come in out of the wet." + +"Very well." + +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. + +"This is not a station," she said. + +"No. It's my shack. Are you cold?" + +"Not very." She shivered a little. + +"You say that some one hurt you?" + +"Yes. They struck me. It made my head feel queer." + +A murderous fury surged into his brain. His hand twitched toward his +revolver. + +"The hoboes," he whispered under his breath. "But they didn't rob you," +he said aloud, looking at the jeweled hand. + +"No. I don't think so. I ran away." + +"Where was it?" + +"On the train." + +Enlightenment burst upon him. "You're sure--" he began. Then, "Tell me +all you can about it." + +"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. + +Banneker, leaning over her, only half suppressed a cry. Back of the +temple rose a great, puffed, leaden-blue wale. + +"Sit still," he said. "I'll fix it." + +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. + +"Does it hurt?" he asked. + +"My head feels queer. Inside." + +"I think the hair ought to be cut away around the place. Right here. +It's quite raw." + +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. + +"May I?" he said. + +"Cut my hair?" she asked. "Oh, no!" + +"Just a little, in one place. I think I can do it so that it won't show. +There's so much of it." + +"Please," she answered, yielding. + +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. + +"Our doctor went back on the train, worse luck!" he said. + +"I don't want any other doctor," she murmured. "I'd rather have you." + +"But I'm not a doctor." + +"No," she acquiesced. "Who are you? Did you tell me? You are one of the +passengers, aren't you?" + +"I'm the station-agent at Manzanita." + +For a moment she looked at him wonderingly. "Are you? I don't seem to +understand. My head is very queer." + +"Don't try to. Here's some tea and crackers." + +"I'm starved," she said. + +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. + +"Are you wet?" he inquired. + +She nodded. "I haven't been dry since the flood." + +"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." + +"But you--" + +"I'll be in my office, below. I'm on night duty to-night," said he, +tactfully fabricating. + +"Very well. You're awfully kind." + +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. + +"You are good to me! It's stupid of me--my head is so queer--did you say +you were--" + +"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." + +"No," she agreed, and rose. + +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. + +Mounting the stairs, she stumbled, and for a moment he felt the firm, +warm pressure of her body against him. It shook him strangely. + +"I'm sorry," she murmured. And, a moment later, "Good-night, and thank +you." + +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. + +"What is it?" asked the serene music of the voice. + +"I don't want to bother you, but there's just one thing I forgot. Please +give me your name." + +"What for?" returned the voice doubtfully. + +"I must report it to the company." + +"Must you?" The voice seemed to be vaguely troubled. "To-night?" + +"Don't give a thought to it," he said. "To-morrow will do just as well. +I'm sorry to have troubled you." + +"Good-night," she said again. + +"Can't remember her own name!" thought Banneker, moved and pitiful. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"The breast of the world rises and falls with your breathing." + +Banneker was twenty-four years old, and had the untainted soul of a boy +of sixteen. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +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. + +She stood poised on the lower step. + +"Good-morning," he said. + +She made no return to his accost other than a slow smile. "I thought you +were a dream," she murmured. + +"No. I'm real enough. Are you better? Your head?" + +She put a hand to the bandage. "It's sore. Otherwise I'm quite fit. I've +slept like the dead." + +"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. + +She accepted the mute tribute untroubled; but there was a suggestion of +puzzlement in the frown which began to pucker her forehead. + +"You're really the station-agent?" she asked with a slight emphasis upon +the adverb. + +"Yes. Why not?" + +"Nothing. No reason. Won't you tell me what happened?" + +"Come inside." He held open the door against the wind. + +"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." + +"So am I," he said soberly. + +"When my brain wouldn't work quite right yesterday, I thought that some +one had hit me. That isn't so, is it?" + +"No. Your train was wrecked. You were injured. In the confusion you must +have run away." + +"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." + +"And then?" + +"I got up and ran again. Have you ever been afraid?" + +"Plenty of times." + +"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. + +"You must have been out all night in the rain."' + +"No. I found a sort of cabin in the woods. It was deserted." + +"Dutch Cal's place. It's only a few rods back in." + +"I saw a light from there and that suggested to my muddled brain that I +might get something to eat." + +"So you came over here." + +"Yes. But the fear came on me again and I didn't dare knock. I suppose I +prowled." + +"Gardner thought he heard ghosts. But ghosts don't steal molasses pie." + +She looked at him solemnly. "Must one steal to get anything to eat +here?" + +"I'm sorry," he cried. "I'll get you breakfast right away. What will you +have? There isn't much." + +"Anything there is. But if I'm to board with you, you must let me pay my +way." + +"The company is responsible for that." + +Her brooding eyes were still fixed upon him. "You actually are the +agent," she mused. "That's quaint." + +"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." + +"No; I'd rather go with you. Perhaps I can help." + +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. + +"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?" + +"A reporter who spent night before last here." + +She dropped her cracker, oleomargarine-side down. "A reporter?" + +"He came down to write up the wreck. It's a bad one. Nine dead, so far." + +"Is he still here?" + +"No. Gone back to Angelica City." + +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. + +"You haven't told me your name yet," he reminded her when the last +shining tin was hung up. + +"No; I haven't. What will you do with it when you get it?" + +"Report it to the company for their lists." + +"Suppose I don't want it reported to the company?' + +"Why on earth shouldn't you?" + +"I may have my reasons. Would it be put in the papers?" + +"Very likely." + +"I don't _want_ it in the papers," said the girl with decision. + +"Don't you want it known that you're all right? Your people--" + +"I'll wire my people. Or you can wire them for me. Can't you?" + +"Of course. But the company has a right to know what has happened to its +passengers." + +"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?" + +"Of course. I'll go now." + +"That's good of you. And for your own self, but not your old company, +I'll tell you my name. I'm--" + +"Wait a moment. Whatever you tell me I'll have to report." + +"You can't," she returned imperiously. "It's in confidence." + +"I won't accept it so." + +"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." + +"Yes. I know. You're I.O.W." + +"How do you know that? And how much more do you know?" + +"No more. A man on the train reported your initials from your baggage." + +"I'll feel ever so much better when I have that bag. Is there a hotel +near here?" + +"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?" + +"No, indeed! All I need is some fresh things." + +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. + +"I'm thinking," said the soft voice of the girl within. "Don't let me +interrupt your work." + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Very likely." + +"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?'" + +"No." + +"Don't suppress your wild enthusiasm on my account," she besought him. +"I haven't interfered with your duties so far, have I?" + +"No," answered Banneker wondering what was coming next. + +"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." + +Banneker dropped a tin on the floor and stood, staring. + +"Isn't that what you want?" + +"It's evident enough that it's what _you_ want," she returned, +aggrieved. + +"No. Not at all," he disclaimed. "Only--well, out here--alone--I don't +understand." + +"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?" + +"For _you_? No; I can't understand that." + +"What about yourself?" she challenged with a swift, amused gleam. "You +are certainly staying out of the world here." + +"This is my world." + +Her eyes and voice dropped. "Truly?" she murmured. Then, as he made no +reply, "It isn't much of a world for a man." + +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. + +"Lo! For there, amidst the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier +movement sounds and passes, Only winds and rivers, Life and death," +he quoted. + +Her eyes glowed with sheer, incredulous astonishment. "How came you by +that Stevenson?" she demanded. "Are you poet as well as recluse?" + +"I met him once." + +"Tell me about it." + +"Some other time. We've other things to talk of now." + +"Some other time? Then I'm to stay!" + +"In Manzanita?" + +"Manzanita? No. Here." + +"In this station? Alone? But why--" + +"Because I'm Io Welland and I want to, and I always get what I want," +she retorted calmly and superbly. + +"Welland," he repeated. "Miss I.O. Welland. And the address is New York, +isn't it?" + +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: + +"Are you going to betray a guest? I've always heard that Western +hospitality--" + +"You're not my guest. You're the company's." + +"And you won't take me for yours?" + +"Be reasonable, Miss Welland." + +"I suppose it's a question of the conventionalities," she mocked. + +"I don't know or care anything about the conventionalities--" + +"Nor I," she interrupted. "Out here." + +"--but my guess would be that they apply only to people who live in the +same world. We don't, you and I." + +"That's rather shrewd of you," she observed. + +"It isn't an easy matter to talk about to a young girl, you know." + +"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." + +"That is true," said Banneker, "so far as it goes." + +"What farther is there? If it's a matter of the inconvenience--" + +"No. You know it isn't that." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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. + +"Well?" + +"If the telegram goes from here, will it be headed by the name of the +station?" + +"Yes." + +"So that inquiry might be made here for me?" + +"It might, certainly." + +"But I don't want it to be. Couldn't you leave off the station?" + +"Not very well." + +"Just for me?" she wheedled. "For your guest that you've been so +insistent on keeping," she added slyly. + +"The message wouldn't be accepted." + +"Oh, dear! Then I won't send it." + +"If you don't notify your family, I must report you to the company." + +"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 _thing_ to help me stay? I believe you don't want me, after +all." + +"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." + +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." + +"You can pay for a cot that I'll get in town," he agreed, "and your +share of the food." + +"But the use of the house, and--and all the trouble I'm making you," she +said doubtfully. "I ought to pay for that." + +"Do you think so?" He looked at her with a peculiar expression which, +however, was not beyond the power of her intuition to interpret. + +"No; I don't," she declared. + +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. + +"Are you, by any chance, married?" + +"No; I'm not. What makes you ask that?" + +"There's been a woman in here before." + +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. + +"A woman?" he said. "Why do you think so?" + +"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." + +"It's true. A friend of mine came here one day and turned everything +topsy-turvy." + +"I'm not asking questions just for curiosity. But is that the reason you +didn't want me to stay?" + +He laughed, thinking of Miss Van Arsdale. "Heavens, no! Wait till you +meet her. She's a very wonderful person; but--" + +"Meet her? Does she live near here, then?" + +"A few miles away." + +"Suppose she should come and find me here?" + +"It's what I've been wishing." + +"Is it! Well, it isn't what I wish at all." + +"In fact," continued the imperturbable Banneker, "I rather planned to +ride over to her place this afternoon." + +"Why, if you please?" + +"To tell her about you and ask her advice." + +Io's face darkened rebelliously. "Do you think it necessary to tattle to +a woman who is a total stranger to me?" + +"I think it would be wise to get her view," he replied, unmoved. + +"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." + +"Some one is coming through the woods trail," said he. + +"Perhaps it's your local friend." + +"That's my guess." + +"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." + +"You're too late," said Banneker. + +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. + +"That's Miss Van Arsdale," said Banneker. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Seated in her saddle the newcomer hailed Banneker. + +"What news, Ban? Is the wreck cleared up?" + +"Yes. But the track is out twenty miles east. Every arroyo and barranca +is bank-high and over." + +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. + +"A passenger, Ban?" she asked, lowering her voice. + +"Yes, Miss Camilla." + +"Left over from the wreck?" + +He nodded. "You came in the nick of time. I don't quite know what to do +with her." + +"Why didn't she go on the relief train?" + +"She didn't show up until last night." + +"Where did she stay the night?" + +"Here." + +"In your office?" + +"In my room. I worked in the office." + +"You should have brought her to me." + +"She was hurt. Queer in the head. I'm not sure that she isn't so yet." + +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. + +"How do you do? I am Irene Welland." + +The older woman took the extended hand. There was courtesy rather than +kindliness in her voice as she asked, "Are you much hurt?" + +"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." + +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?" + +"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." + +"Not at all," disclaimed the agent. + +But Miss Van Arsdale interrupted, addressing the girl: + +"You must be anxious, yourself, to get back to civilization." + +"Why?" returned the girl lightly. "This seems a beautiful locality." + +"Were you traveling alone?" + +The girl flushed a little, but her eyes met the question without +wavering. "Quite alone." + +"To the coast?" + +"To join friends there." + +"If they can patch up the washed-out track," put in Banneker, "Number +Seven ought to get through to-night." + +"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." + +"What do you want to do?" inquired Miss Van Arsdale with lifted brows. + +"Stay here for a few days, in that funny little house." She indicated +the portable shack. + +"That is Mr. Banneker's own place." + +"I understand perfectly." + +"I don't think it would do, Miss Welland. It is _Miss_ Welland, isn't +it?" + +"Yes, indeed. Why wouldn't it do, Miss Van Arsdale?" + +"Ask yourself." + +"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." + +Banneker flushed angrily. "There's no question of my being compromised," +he began shortly. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"No," said Banneker. + +"You can hardly kidnap me, even with all the conventionalities on your +side," Miss Welland pointed out to Miss Van Arsdale. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Certainly." + +"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. + +Banneker laughed. + +"You're a coward," said Io. + +Miss Van Arsdale laughed. + +"I'll go to the hotel in the town and stay there." + +"Think twice before you do that," advised the woman. + +"Why?" asked Io, struck by the tone. + +"Crawly things," replied Miss Van Arsdale sententiously. + +"Big, hungry ones," added Banneker. + +He could almost feel the little rippling shudders passing across the +girl's delicate skin. "Oh, I think you're _loathly_!" she cried. "Both +of you." + +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. + +"Why not be sensible and stay with me to-night while you think it all +over?" suggested Miss Van Arsdale. + +"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." + +"Pack up your things, then, and I'll bring an extra horse from the town. +I'll be back in an hour." + +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. + +"Your telegram ought to get off from Williams sometime to-morrow," he +said. + +"That will be time enough," she answered. + +"Will there be any answer?" + +"How can there be? I haven't given any address." + +"I could wire Williams later." + +"No. I don't want to be bothered. I want to be let alone. I'm tired." + +He cast a glance about the lowering horizon. "More rain coming," he +said. "I wish you could have seen the desert in the sunshine." + +"I'll wait." + +"Will you?" he cried eagerly. "It may be quite a while." + +"Perhaps Miss Van Arsdale will keep me, as you wouldn't." + +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." + +Io took a step nearer to him. "I've been looking at your books." + +He returned her gaze unembarrassed. "Odds and ends," he said. "You +wouldn't find much to interest you." + +"On the contrary. Everything interested me. You're a mystery--and I hate +mysteries." + +"That's rather hard." + +"Until they're solved. Perhaps I shall stay until I solve you." + +"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. + +"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?" + +"Both," smiled Banneker. "That's fairest." + +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. + +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. + +"Is riding cross-saddle uncomfortable for you?" asked Miss Van Arsdale. + +"Not in the least. I often do it at home." + +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. + +"Wild dove," she said, stroking them. "You'll find them a welcome +addition to a meager bill of fare." + +"I should be quite content with whatever you usually have." + +"Doubted," replied the other. "I live rather a frugal life. It saves +trouble." + +"And I'm afraid I'm going to make you trouble. But you brought it upon +yourself." + +"By interfering. Exactly. How old are you?" + +"Twenty." + +"Good Heavens! You have the aplomb of fifty." + +"Experience," smiled the girl, flattered. + +"And the recklessness of fifteen." + +"I abide by the rules of the game. And when I find myself--well, out of +bounds, I make my own rules." + +Miss Van Arsdale shook her firmly poised head. "It won't do. The rules +are the same everywhere, for honorable people." + +"Honorable!" There was a flash of resentful pride as the girl turned in +the saddle to face her companion. + +"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." + +"I suppose," surmised the girl, "you want to know why I don't go back +into the world at once." + +"No." + +"Then I'll tell you." + +"As you wish." + +"I came West to be married." + +"To Delavan Eyre?" + +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?" + +"I occasionally see a New York newspaper." + +"Then you know who I am, too?" + +"Yes. You are the pet of the society column paragraphers; the famous +'Io' Welland." She spoke with a curious intonation. + +"Ah, you read the society news?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Doesn't it seem to you a bit vulgar?" asked the other. + +"Perhaps. But it's the way the game is played nowadays." + +"With counters which you have let the parvenues establish for you. In my +day we tried to keep out of the papers." + +"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. + +"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--" + +"It wasn't Del Eyre that I came out here to marry." + +"No?" + +"No. It's Carter Holmesley. Of course you know about him." + +"By advertisement, also; the society-column kind." + +"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 _danseuse_. And all without his lifting his hand." + +"_Une mariage de reclame_," observed Miss Van Arsdale. "Is it that that +constitutes his charm for you?" + +Miss Van Arsdale's smile was still instinct with mockery, but there had +crept into it a quality of indulgence. + +"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'--_you_ +know. It _is_ 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." + +"Were you engaged to Delavan Eyre when you met him?" + +"Oh, engaged!" returned the girl fretfully. "There was never more than a +sort of understanding. A _mariage de convenance_ on both sides, if it +ever came off. I _am_ 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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +This time her tone stung. Io Welland's eyes became sullen. But her voice +was almost caressingly amiable as she said: + +"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." + +Camilla Van Arsdale's face was white and lifeless and still, as she +turned it toward the girl. + +"You must have been a very precocious five-year-old," she said steadily. + +"All the Olneys are precocious. My mother was an Olney, a first cousin +of Mrs. Willis Enderby, you know." + +"Yes; I remember now." + +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--". + +"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. + +"Shall I go back?" asked Io remorsefully. + +"No." + +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. + +"Be welcome," she said with a certain stately gravity, "for as long as +you will stay." + +"It might be some time," answered Io shyly. "You're tempting me." + +"When is your wedding?" + +"Wedding! Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm not going to marry Carter Holmesley +either." + +"You are not going--" + +"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." + +"I see. For fear of his overbearing you." + +"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." + +"Then you'll go back to him?" + +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." + +"Then you don't consider Mr. Banneker as belonging to the tribe of men?" + +"He's an official. I could always see his uniform, at need." She fell +into thought. "It's a curious thing," she mused. + +Miss Van Arsdale said nothing. + +"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." + +"Won't you have some tea? You must be tired," said Miss Van Arsdale +politely. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +Meantime Io wanted to rest and think. + +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. + +"Then this is the ideal spot for you," Miss Van Arsdale answered her. +"I'm going to ride over to town." + +"In this gale?" asked the surprised girl. + +"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." + +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. + +"Come back with me," she invited after acknowledging his greeting. + +"I was going over to see Miss Welland." + +"Wait until to-morrow. She is resting." + +A shade of disappointment crossed his face. "All right," he agreed. "I +wanted to tell her that her messages got off all right." + +"I'll tell her when I go back." + +"That'll be just as well," he answered reluctantly. "How is she +feeling?" + +"Exhausted. She's been under severe strain." + +"Oughtn't she to have a doctor? I could ride--" + +"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." + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"Ban." + +"Yes?" + +"Have you ever seen anything like her before?" + +"Only on the stage." + +She smiled. "What do you think of her?" + +"I hardly know how to express it," he answered frankly, though +hesitantly. "She makes me think of all the poetry I've ever read." + +"That's dangerous. Ban, have you any idea what kind of a girl she is?" + +"What kind?" he repeated. He looked startled. + +"Of course you haven't. How should you? I'm going to tell you." + +"Do you know her, Miss Camilla?" + +"As well as if she were my own sister. That is, I know her type. It's +common enough." + +"It can't be," he protested eagerly. + +"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." + +"Of course. I realize that." + +"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." + +"She'll have to, to get out of here if this rain keeps up," observed the +station-agent grimly. + +"I wish she would," returned Miss Van Arsdale. + +"Is she in your way?" + +"I shouldn't mind that if I could keep her out of yours," she answered +bluntly. + +Banneker turned a placid and smiling face to her. "You think I'm a fool, +don't you, Miss Camilla?" + +"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." + +"She's lovely, all right," assented Banneker. + +"Well; I've warned you, Ban," returned his friend in slightly dispirited +tones. + +"What do you want me to do? Keep away from your place? I'll do whatever +you say. But it's all nonsense." + +"I dare say it is," sighed Miss Van Arsdale. "Forget that I've said it, +Ban. Meddling is a thankless business." + +"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?" + +"Too official a question for me. You'll have to settle that for +yourself." + +"How long does she intend to stay?" + +"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." + +"And you won't do that?" + +"I certainly shall not!" + +"No; I suppose not. You've been awfully good to her." + +"Hospitality to the shipwrecked," smiled Miss Van Arsdale as she crossed +the track toward the village. + +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: + +"Miss Van Arsdale, will you be very good to me?" + +"What is it?" + +"I'm tired," said Io. "So tired!" + +"Stay, of course," responded the hostess, answering the implication +heartily, "as long as you will." + +"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." + +"Of course. Now, if you like. As soon as the chill gets out of my +hands." + +"Thank you. And sing?" suggested the girl diffidently. + +A fierce contraction of pain marred the serenity of the older woman's +face. "No," she said harshly. "I sing for no one." + +"I'm sorry," murmured the girl. + +"What have you been doing all day?" asked Miss Van Arsdale, holding out +her hands toward the fire. + +"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." + +"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." + +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 Ase's +death-chant, glorious and mystical. + +"Are you asleep?" asked the player, speaking through the chords. + +"No," answered Io's tremulous voice. "I'm being very unhappy. I love +it!" + +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." + +"But I want to be unhappy," pouted Io. "I want to be pampered." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Our quaint young station-agent seems to have abandoned his +responsibilities so far as I'm concerned," she observed. + +"Because he hasn't come to see you?" + +"Yes. He said he would." + +"I told him not to." + +"I see," said Io, after thinking it over. "Is he a little--just a wee, +little bit queer in his head?" + +"He's one of the sanest persons I've ever known. And I want him to stay +so." + +"I see again," stated the girl. + +"So you thought him a bit unbalanced? That _is_ amusing." That the +hostess meant the adjective in good faith was proved by her quiet +laughter. + +Io regarded her speculatively and with suspicion. "He asked the same +about me, I suppose." Such was her interpretation of the laugh. + +"But he gave you credit for being only temporarily deranged." + +"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?" + +"I think I could guess," smiled the other. + +"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." + +"Why isn't it reasonable?' + +"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?" + +"Not that I know of." + +"Then what does he want of a steel boat?" + +"Ask him." + +"It might stir him up. They get violent if you question their pet +lunacies, don't they?" + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"My dear; I have no control over your actions." + +"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. + +"I've told you that he was romantic," warned the other. + +"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!" + +Miss Van Arsdale, smiling, shook her head, but her eyes were troubled. +There was compunction in Io's next remark. + +"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." + +"Wouldn't an Eastern trip be safer?" suggested her hostess. + +"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." + +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 pinon 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. + +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. + +"You're a funny little bird," said she. "Say something!" + +Like his congener of the hortatory poem, the owl held his peace. + +"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." + +She walked past the occupant of the cactus, and his head, turning, +followed her with the slow, methodical movement of a toy mechanism. + +"You give me a crick in my neck," protested the intruder plaintively. +"Now, I'll step over behind you and you'll _have_ to move or stop +watching me." + +She walked behind the watcher. The eyes continued to hold her in direct +range. + +"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." + +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. + +"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..." + +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. + +"Heaven save us from the powers of evil!" she said appreciatively. +"Aroint thee, witch!" + +She threw the coin at the cactus. + +"Chrr-rr-rrum!" burbled the owl, and flew away. + +"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 _got_ 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. + +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. + +"Good-morning," she called. + +Without looking up he gave back her greeting in an absent echo. + +"As you didn't come to see me, I've come to see you," was her next +attempt. + +Did he nod? Or had he made no motion at all? + +"I've come to ask important questions about trains," she pursued, a +little aggrieved by his indifference to her presence. + +No reply from the intent worker. + +"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. + +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: + +"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." + +But she was not gone when, ten minutes later, Banneker came out. He +looked tired. + +"You know, you weren't very polite to me," she remarked, glancing at him +slantwise as he stood before her. + +If she expected apologies, she was disappointed, and perhaps thought +none the less of him for his dereliction. + +"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." + +"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." + +"A day?" he echoed. + +"Yes. I'm going to-morrow." + +"That's as may be. Ten to one there's no space to be had." + +"Surely you can get something for me. A section will do if you can't get +a stateroom." + +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." + +"What ails your road?" she demanded indignantly. "Is it just stuck +together with glue?" + +"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." + +"But it isn't leaking now," she objected. + +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." + +"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." + +"Well, it's only sixty miles away," he answered. "Perhaps you'd better +take some grub along or you might get hungry." + +"Aren't you coming with me?" + +"This is my busy morning. If it were afternoon, now--" + +"Very well. Since you are so urgent, I _will_ stay to luncheon. I'll +even get it up myself if you'll let me into the shack." + +"That's a go!" said Banneker heartily. "What about your horse?" + +"I walked over." + +"No; did you?" He turned thoughtful, and his next observation had a +slightly troubled ring. "Have you got a gun?" + +"A gun? Oh, you mean a pistol. No; I haven't. Why should I?" + +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." + +"Do you carry a gun?" + +"I would if I were going about with you." + +"Then you can loan me yours to go home with this afternoon," she said +lightly. + +"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." + +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. + +"Have you found enough to keep you amused?" + +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." + +"It's a queerish library, I suppose," he said apologetically. + +"If I believed in dual personality--" she began; but broke off to hold +up the bulky veteran. "Where did you get 'The Undying Voices'?" + +"Oh, that's a windfall. What a bully title for a collection of the great +poetries, isn't it!" + +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. + +"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. + +"What kind of a windfall?" she asked. + +"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." + +"What's the one?" + +He laughed, holding up the still more corpulent Sears-Roebuck catalogue. + +"Ah," said she gravely. "That accounts, I suppose, for the top shelf." + +"Yes, mostly." + +"Do you like them? The Conscientious Improvers, I mean?" + +"I think they're bunk." + +"Then why did you get them?" + +"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. + +"Did you find it there?" + +"No. It isn't there." + +"Here?" She laid both hands on the "windfall." + +His face lighted subtly. + +"It _is_ there, isn't it! If one has the sense to get it out." + +"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?" + +"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.'" + +"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'?" + +"Did you ever read any of the works of Harvey Wheelwright?" he +questioned in turn. + +"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. + +"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?" + +"That's the magic of it," returned Io, with a little, half-suppressed +crow of delight. "Are you magic, too, Mr. Banneker?" + +"Me? I'm hungry," said he. + +"Forgive the cook!" she cried. "But just one thing more. Will you lend +me the poetry book?" + +"It's all marked up," he objected, flushing. + +"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." + +"Take it, of course," he said. "I suppose I've marked all the wrong +things." + +"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?" + +He tasted it consideringly; then gave a serious verdict. "Pretty bad." + +"Really! I suppose it isn't according to the mail-order book recipe." + +"It's muddy and it's weak." + +"Are you always so frank in your expression of views?" + +"Well, you asked me." + +"Would you answer as plainly whatever I asked you?" + +"Certainly. I'd have too much respect for you not to." + +She opened wide eyes at this. Then provocatively: "What do you think of +me, Mr. Banneker?" + +"I can't answer that." + +"Why not?" she teased. + +"I don't know you well enough to give an opinion." + +"You know me as well as you ever will." + +"Very likely." + +"Well, a snap judgment, for what it's worth.... What are you doing +there?" + +"Making more coffee." + +Io stamped her foot. "You're the most enraging man I ever met." + +"It's quite unintentional," he replied patiently, but with no hint of +compunction. "You may drink yours and I'll drink mine." + +"You're only making it worse!" + +"Very well; then I'll drink yours if you like." + +"And say it's good." + +"But what's the use?" + +"And say it's good," insisted Io. + +"It's marvelous," agreed her unsmiling host. + +Far from being satisfied with words and tone, which were correctness +itself, Io was insensately exasperated. + +"You're treating me like a child," she charged. + +"How do you want me to treat you?" + +"As a woman," she flashed, and was suddenly appalled to feel the blood +flush incredibly to her cheeks. + +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: + +"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?" + +"For a hundred!" cried Io. + +The wine of life was potent in her veins. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +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. + +The revelation had come about through her description of her encounter +with the queer and attentive bird of the desert. + +"Oh," said Banneker. "You've been interviewing a cactus owl." + +"Did he unwind his neck carefully and privately after I had gone?" + +"No," returned Banneker gravely. "He just jumped in the air and his body +spun around until it got back to its original relation." + +"How truly fascinating! Have you seen him do it?" + +"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." + +"And doesn't it ever make _you_ dizzy? All this local lore, I mean, that +you carry around in your head?" + +"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--" + +"Yes; I know. I've been West before, thank you! Pardon my curiosity, but +are all you creatures of the desert queer and inexplicable?" + +"Not me," he returned promptly if ungrammatically, "if you're looking in +my direction." + +"I'll admit that I find you as interesting as the owl--almost. And quite +as hard to understand." + +"Nobody ever called me queer; not to my face." + +"But you are, you know. You oughtn't to be here at all." + +"Where ought I to be?" + +"How can I answer that riddle without knowing where you have been? Are +you Ulysses--" + +"'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." + +"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?" + +"This," he said, sweeping a hand around the curve of the horizon. + +"And in any one else," she retorted, "that would be priggish as well as +disingenuous." + +"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." + +"I really beg your pardon, Mr. Banneker!" + +"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." + +"You'll think me prying," she objected. + +"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--" + +"Of course I should like it." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +Io smiled in return. "What is your name?" she asked. + +"Errol. But every one calls me Ban." + +"Haven't you ever told this to any one before?" + +"No." + +"Why not?" + +"Why should I?" + +"I don't know really," hesitated the girl, "except that it seems almost +inhuman to keep one's self so shut off." + +"It's nobody else's business." + +"Yet you've told it to me. That's very charming of you." + +"You said you'd be interested." + +"So I am. It's an extraordinary life, though you don't seem to think +so." + +"But I don't want to be extraordinary." + +"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?" + +"I don't see how she could. I've never told her." + +"And she's never asked you anything?" + +"Not a word. I don't quite see Miss Camilla asking any one questions +about themselves. Did she ask you?" + +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?" + +"Why, yes; I suppose so." + +"Do you suppose you'd ever come to reckon me as one?" she asked, half +bantering, half wistful. + +"There won't be time. You're running away." + +"Perhaps I might write you. I think I'd like to." + +"Would you?" he murmured. "Why?" + +"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." + +"I don't know what it could be, but--" + +"Call it your philosophy of life. Your contentment. Or is it only +detachment? That can't last, you know." + +He turned to her, vaguely disturbed as by a threat. "Why not?" + +"You're too--well, distinctive. You're too rare and beautiful a +specimen. You'll be grabbed." She laughed softly. + +"Who'll grab me?" + +"How should I know? Life, probably. Grab you and dry you up and put you +in a case like the rest of us." + +"Perhaps that's why I like to stay out here. At least I can be myself." + +"Is that your fondest ambition?" + +However much he may have been startled by the swift stab, he gave no +sign of hurt in his reply. + +"Call it the line of least resistance. In any case, I shouldn't like to +be grabbed and dried up." + +"Most of us are grabbed and catalogued from our birth, and eventually +dried up and set in our proper places." + +"Not you, certainly." + +"Because you haven't seen me in my shell. That's where I mostly live. +I've broken out for a time." + +"Don't you like it outside, Butterfly?" he queried with a hint of +playful caress in his voice. + +"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." + +"Then you do like it outside your shell." + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"Is that all you have to write about?" + +Banneker bethought himself of the very private dossier in his office. +"No; it isn't." + +"You _could_ write in a way all your own. Have you ever written anything +for publication?" + +"No. That is--well--I don't really know." He told her about Gardner and +the description of the wreck. + +"How did you happen to do that?" she asked curiously. + +"Oh, I write a lot of things and put them away and forget them." + +"Show me," she wheedled. "I'd love to see them." + +He shook his head. "They wouldn't interest you." The words were those of +an excuse. But in the tone was finality. + +"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." + +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. + +"Perhaps," she suggested, "you are afraid of me." + +"No; I'm not." + +"By that you mean 'Why should I be'?" + +"Something of the sort." + +"Didn't Miss Van Arsdale warn you against me?" + +"How did you know that?" he asked, staring. + +"A solemn warning not to fall in love with me?" pursued the girl calmly. + +He stopped short. "She told you that she had said something to me?" + +"Don't be idiotic! Of course she didn't." + +"Then how did you know?" he persisted. + +"How does one snake know what another snake will do?" she retorted. +"Being of the same--" + +"Wait a moment. I don't like that word 'snake' in connection with Miss +Van Arsdale." + +"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. + +"No; she didn't. Not in so many words. But you're very clever." + +"Say, rather, that _you_ are very stupid," was the disdainful retort. +"So you're not going to fall in love with me?" + +"Of course not," answered Banneker in the most cheerfully commonplace of +tones. + +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. + +"Brass buttons," said Banneker concisely. + +She flushed angrily. "You _can_ be rather a beast, can't you!" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"To fall in love with you?" + +"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." + +"Do you?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"No; you wouldn't. I don't know that _you_ would have to anywhere.... +Are we almost home?" + +"Three minutes' more walking. Tired?" + +"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 _make_ you write me." She flashed a smile at him. + +"How?" + +"By sending you books. You'll have to acknowledge them." + +"No. I couldn't take them. I'd have to send them back." + +"You wouldn't let me send you a book or two just as a friendly memento?" +she cried, incredulous. + +"I don't take anything from anybody," he retorted doggedly. + +"Ah; that's small-minded," she accused. "That's ungenerous. I wouldn't +think that of you." + +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." + +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." + +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." + +"He must have been a fool," said Io scornfully. + +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. + +When he came out again, the station was empty. + +Io was gone. So was the newspaper. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +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: + +"You'll find towels and a bathrobe in the passageway." + +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. + +"What is it?" she demanded sharply. + +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. + +"The beast! Oh, the beast!" she whispered. + +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. + +BRITON'S BEAUTIFUL FIANCEE LOST + +read the caption, in the glaring vulgarity of extra-heavy type, and +below; + +_Ducal Heir Offers Private Reward to Dinner Party of Friends_ + +After an estimating look at the girl, who sat quite still with hot, +blurred eyes, Miss Van Arsdale carefully read the article through. + +"Here is advertising enough to satisfy the greediest appetite for +print," she remarked grimly. + +"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!" + +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?" + +"I'm listening. But it won't make any difference what you say." + +"Look at me. Don't stare into nothingness that way. Have you read this?" + +"Enough of it. It ends everything." + +"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?" + +"No; it isn't that. It's the beastliness of the whole thing. It's the +disgrace." + +Miss Van Arsdale turned to the paper again. + +"Your name isn't given." + +"It might as well be. As soon as it gets back to New York, every one +will know." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Then he's a coward," pronounced Miss Van Arsdale vigorously. + +"What am I? I didn't play fair with him. I practically jilted him +without even letting him know why." + +Miss Van Arsdale frowned. "Didn't you send him word?" + +"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!" + +"But you did intend to go on and face him and have it out. You told me +that." + +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." + +"Don't be melodramatic. And don't waste yourself in self-pity. To-morrow +you'll see things clearer, after you've slept." + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +Io acquiesced dully. + +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. + +"D--d--don't make a light," she whimpered. "I've been crying." + +"That's good. The best thing you could do." + +"I want to go home," wailed Io. + +"That's good, too. Though perhaps you'd better wait a little. Why, in +particular do you want to go home?" + +"I w-w-w-want to m-m-marry Delavan Eyre." + +A quiver of humor trembled about the corners of Camilla Van Arsdale's +mouth. "Echoes of remorse," she commented. + +"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." + +"We'll see. Now you go back to bed and sleep." + +"I'd rather sleep here," said Io. "The fire is so friendly." She curled +herself into a little soft ball. + +Her hostess threw a coverlet over her and returned to her own room. + +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. + +"The best possible thing," said Camilla Van Arsdale. "I'll write your +people that you are staying on for a visit." + +"Yes; they won't mind. They're used to my vagaries. It's awfully good of +you." + +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. + +"Not her head again, is it?" asked Banneker, alarmed. + +"More nerves, though the head injury probably contributed." + +"Oughtn't I to get a doctor?" + +"No. All that she needs is rest." + +"She left the station yesterday without a word." + +"Yes," replied the non-committal Miss Van Arsdale. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Give me as much notice as you can and I'll do my best for her." + +The other nodded. "Did you get any newspapers by the train?" she +inquired. + +"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. + +"You know there was a reporter up from Angelica City writing up the +wreck." + +"Yes." + +"Gardner, his name is. A nice sort of fellow. I showed him some nonsense +that I wrote about the wreck." + +"You? What kind of nonsense?" + +"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." + +"One might suppose it would. Did it?" + +"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." + +"As Gardner's?" + +"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." + +"Then, in spite of a casual way of handling other people's ideas, Mr. +Gardner apparently means to be honest." + +"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." + +"The Goths and Vandals usually did 'touch up' whatever they acquired, I +believe. Hasn't he sent you a copy?" + +"He's going to send it. Or bring it." + +"Bring it? What should attract him to Manzanita again?" + +"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." + +"That's strange. Where did this tip come from? Did he say?" + +Miss Van Arsdale frowned. + +"New York, I think. He spoke of its being a special job for The Sphere." + +"Are you going to help him?" + +"If I can. He's been white to me." + +"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." + +Miss Van Arsdale became silent and thoughtful. + +"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." + +"I don't think it is." Miss Van Arsdale's troubled eyes strayed toward +the inner room. + +Following them, Banneker's lighted up with a flash of astonished +comprehension. + +"You don't think--" he began. + +His friend nodded assent. + +"Why should the newspapers be after her?" + +"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." + +"Yes; but what has she done?" + +"Disappeared." + +"Not at all. She sent back messages. So there can't be any mystery about +it." + +"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?" + +Banneker smiled gently, indulgently. "Do you think it likely?" + +"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." + +"The bump on the head, you mean?" + +"Worse than that. I think I'd better tell you since we are all in this +thing together." + +Briefly she outlined the abortive adventure that had brought Io west, +and its ugly outcome. + +"Publicity is the one thing we must protect her from," declared Miss Van +Arsdale. + +"Yes; that's clear enough." + +"What shall you tell this Gardner man?" + +"Nothing that he wants to know." + +"You'll try to fool him?" + +"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." + +"Then he'll suspect something and go nosing about the village making +inquiries." + +"Let him. Who can tell him anything? Who's even seen her except you and +me?" + +"True enough. Nobody is going to see her for some days yet if I can help +it. Not even you, Ban." + +"Is she as bad as that?" he asked anxiously. + +"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. + +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. + +"Well, Mr. Man," he observed. "You've made a hit with that story of +yours even before it's got into print." + +"Did you bring me a copy of the paper?" + +Gardner grinned. "You seem to think Sunday specials are set up and +printed overnight. Wait a couple of weeks." + +"But they're going to publish it?" + +"Surest thing you know. They've wired me to know who you are and what +and why." + +"Why what?" + +"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." + +"I wouldn't mind getting a little local correspondence to do," announced +Banneker modestly. + +"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?" + +"Yes." + +"Have you got any addition to your list since?" + +"No," replied Banneker. "Have you?" he added. + +"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." + +"All the bodies were accounted for," said the agent. + +"They don't think she's dead. They think she's run away." + +"Run away?" repeated Banneker with an impassive face. + +"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. + +"Who's she?" said Banneker. + +"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?" + +"What does she look like?" asked the cautious Banneker. + +"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." + +"Nothing of that sort on the train, so far as I saw," said the agent. + +"Did you see any couple that looked lovey-dovey?" + +"No." + +"Then, there's another tip that connects her up with Carter Holmesley. +Know about him?" + +"I've seen his name." + +"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." + +"I don't think you're likely to find her around here." + +"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?" + +"Sure thing! There isn't likely to be, either." + +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. + +"Let's talk about something else," he said, having lighted his pipe. +"What else have you written besides the wreck stuff?" + +"Nothing," said Banneker. + +"Come off! That thing was never a first attempt." + +"Well, nothing except random things for my own amusement." + +"Pass 'em over." + +Banneker shook his head. "No; I've never shown them to anybody." + +"Oh, all right. If you're shy about it," responded the reporter +good-humoredly. "But you must have thought of writing as a profession." + +"Vaguely, some day." + +"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?" + +"Do you think so?" + +"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!" + +"Why didn't you?" + +"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!" + +"I don't believe I understand." + +"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?" + +"I like to read it once in a while." + +"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: + +"Ah, who shall dare to search in what sad maze Thenceforth their +incommunicable ways Follow the desultory feet of Death?" + +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! + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +"Wouldn't you like to know when I'm going home?" + +Io Welland looked up from beneath her dark lashes at her hostess with a +mixture of mischief and deprecation. + +"No," said Miss Van Arsdale quietly. + +"Ah? Well, I would. Here it is two full weeks since I settled down on +you. Why don't you evict me?" + +Miss Van Arsdale smiled. The girl continued: + +"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?" + +"Instinct of self-preservation," suggested the other. "You're better off +here until your strength is quite restored, aren't you?" + +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. + +"Liking is such an undefined attitude," replied the other, +unembarrassed. + +"You find me diverting," defined Io. "But you resent me, don't you?" + +"That's rather acute in you. I don't like your standards nor those of +your set." + +"I've abandoned them." + +"You'll resume them as soon as you get back." + +"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. + +"It is a healing place," said the habitant of it, low, as if to herself. + +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." + +"That is a kindly, but rather exaggerated gratitude." + +"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?" + +"Sex feeling would be nearer it," replied the other. "There is something +instinctive which makes women who are alone stand by each other." + +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." + +"I shall miss you," said the hostess, and added, smiling, "as one misses +a stimulant. Stay through the rest of the month, anyway." + +"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?" + +"Not unless she was a very dull and stupid woman with little to +understand," smiled Miss Van Arsdale. "What are you doing to-day?" + +"Riding down to lunch with your paragon of a station-agent." + +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?" + +"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." + +"Are you going to spoil what you cannot replace?" The retort was swift, +almost fierce. + +"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." + +"Yes," breathed the other. "You would." + +"What were you intending to do with him?" + +There was a hint of challenge in the slight emphasis given to the query. + +"I? Nothing. He is under no obligation to me." + +"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. + +"What does it matter?" + +"Out here, nothing. But elsewhere--well, it does define a man, doesn't +it?" + +"Undoubtedly. I've never gone into it with him." + +"I wonder if I could guess why." + +"Very likely. You seem preternaturally acute in these matters." + +"Is it because the Sears-Roebuck mail-order double-bow knot in polka-dot +pattern stands as a sign of pristine innocence?" + +In spite of herself Miss Van Arsdale laughed. "Something of that sort." + +Io's soft lips straightened. "It's rotten bad form. Why shouldn't he be +right? It's so easy. Just a hint--" + +"From you?" + +"From either of us. Yes; from me, if you like." + +"It's quite an intimate interest, isn't it?" + +"'But never can battle of men compare With merciless feminine fray'"-- +quoted Io pensively. + +"Kipling is a sophomore about women," retorted Miss Van Arsdale. "We're +not going to quarrel over Errol Banneker. The odds are too unfair." + +"Unfair?" queried Io, with a delicate lift of brow. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Yes. Will you be back for supper?" + +"Of course. Shall I bring the paragon?" + +"If you wish." + +Outside the gaunt box of the station, Io, from the saddle sent forth her +resonant, young call: + +"Oh, Ban!" + +"'Tis the voice of the Butterfly; hear her declare, 'I've come down to +the earth; I am tired of the air'" + +chanted Banneker's voice in cheerful paraphrase. "Light and preen your +wings, Butterfly." + +Their tone was that of comrades without a shade of anything deeper. + +"Busy?" asked Io. + +"Just now. Give me another five minutes." + +"I'll go to the hammock." + +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. + +"Don't speak to me," she murmured; "I want to believe that this will +last forever." + +Silent and acquiescent, he seated himself in a camp-chair close by. She +stretched a hand to him, closing her eyes again. + +"Swing me," she ordered. + +He aided the wind to give a wider sweep to the hammock. Io stirred +restlessly. + +"You've broken the spell," she accused softly. "Weave me another one." + +"What shall it be?" He bent over the armful of books which he had +brought out. + +"You choose this time." + +"I wonder," he mused, regarding her consideringly. + +"Ah, you may well wonder! I'm in a very special mood to-day." + +"When aren't you, Butterfly?" he laughed. + +"Beware that you don't spoil it. Choose well, or forever after hold your +peace." + +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: + +"When Work and Will awake too late, to gaze After their life sailed by, +and hold their breath." + +Io opened her eyes again. + +"Why did you select that thing?" + +"Why did you mark it?" + +"Did I mark it?" + +"Certainly, I'm not responsible for the sage-blossom between the pages." + +"Ah, the sage! That's for wisdom," she paraphrased lightly. + +"Do you think Rossetti so wise a preceptor?" + +"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." + +"Then it's the more evident that you marked it for some special reason." + +"What supernatural insight," she mocked. "Can you read your name between +the lines?" + +"What is it that you want me to do?" + +"You mean to ask what it is that Mr. Rossetti wants you to do. I didn't +write the sonnet, you know." + +"You didn't fashion the arrow, but you aimed it." + +"Am I a good marksman?" + +"I suppose you mean that I'm wasting my time here." + +"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--" + +"I'm happy here," he said doggedly. + +"Are you going to be, always?" + +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." + +"What about?" The question came sharp and quick. + +He looked vaguely around the horizon. + +"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. + +"I've never cared much for people," he said. + +"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?" + +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?'" + +"What has that to do with it?" questioned Io, surprised and impatient. + +"Only that, somehow, the way you said 'success in life' made me think of +him and his 'yearn for Jesus.'" + +"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 _is_ a species of religion to me, I suppose." + +"And you are making converts, like all true enthusiasts. Tell, tell me. +What kind of success?" + +"Oh, power. Money. Position. Being somebody." + +"I'm somebody here all right. I'm the station-agent of the Atkinson and +St. Philip Railroad Company." + +"Now you're trying to provoke me." + +"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." + +"Of course. Every man ought to." + +"I'm not so sure," he objected. "There's a kind of virtue in staying +put, isn't there?" + +She made a little gesture of impatience. + +"I'll give you a return for your sonnet," he pursued, and repeated from +memory: + +"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?" + +"I don't know it. It's beautiful. What is it?" + +"Gilbert Murray's translation of 'The Bacchae.' My legal mentors had a +lapse of dry-as-dustness and sent it to me." + +"'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." + +"Very probably. Poetry isn't success, is it?" + +Her face grew eager. "It might be. The very highest. But you've got to +make yourself known and felt among people." + +"Do you think I could? And how does one get that kind of desire?" he +asked lazily. + +"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." + +"What is it?" + +"Restlessness." + +"That's ambition with its nerves gone bad, isn't it?" + +Again she smiled. "You'll know what it is some day." + +"Is it contagious?" he asked solicitously. + +"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." + +'"Dream that the gods are good,'" he echoed. "The last thing they ever +think of being according to my reading." + +She capped his line; + +"We twain, once well in sunder, What will the mad gods do--'" + +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." + +"I'll have to be back by twelve," he said. "Excuse me just a moment." + +He disappeared into the portable house. When he rejoined her, she asked: + +"What did you go in there for? To get your revolver?" + +"Yes." + +"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." + +"The sight of it would be taken as evidence that you knew how to use +it," he assured her. + +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: + +"Do you ever get restless?" + +"I haven't, here. I'm getting rested." + +"And at home I suppose you're too busy." + +"Being busy is no preventive. Somebody has said that St. Vitus is the +patron saint of New York society." + +"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. + +"I beg your pardon; what was that about poetry and books?" + +"Girls like you--society girls, I mean--read everything there is, don't +they?" + +"Where do you get that extraordinary idea?" + +"Why, from knowing you." + +"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?" + +"Why, I suppose I'd give myself away as an ignoramus." + +"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." + +"But you--" + +"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. + +"Then you just took up books as a sort of freak; a side issue?" The +disappointment in his face was almost ludicrous. + +"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?" + +"There's a horse coming along the old trail," said Banneker. + +"Who is it?" she asked. "Some one following us?" + +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. + +Banneker returned the greeting. + +"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?" + +"Busy," replied Banneker. + +Something in his tone made the other raise himself from his weary droop. +He sighted Io. + +"Howdy, ma'am," he said. "Didn't see there was ladies present." + +"Good-morning," said Io. + +"Visitin' hereabouts?" inquired the man, eyeing her curiously. + +"Yes." + +"Where, if I might be bold to ask?" + +"If you've got any questions to ask, ask them of me, Fred," directed +Banneker. + +While there was nothing truculent in his manner, it left no doubt as to +his readiness and determination. + +Fred looked both sullen and crestfallen. + +"It ain't nothin'," he said. "Only, inquiries was bein' made by a gent +from a Angelica City noospaper last week." + +"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?" + +The other grunted, touched his sombrero to Io and rode on. + +"Has a reporter been here inquiring after me?" asked Io. + +"Not after you. It was some one else." + +"If the newspapers tracked me here, I'd have to leave at once." + +"They won't. At least, it isn't likely." + +"You'd get me out some way, wouldn't you, Ban?" she said trustfully. + +"Yes." + +"Ban; that Fred person seemed afraid of you." + +"He's got nothing to be afraid of unless he talks too much." + +"But you had him 'bluffed.' I'm sure you had. Ban, did you ever kill a +man?" + +"No." + +"Or shoot one?" + +"Not even that." + +"Yet, I believe, from the way he looked at you, that you've got a +reputation as a 'bad man'?" + +"So I have. But it's no fault of mine." + +"How did you get it?" + +"You'll laugh if I tell you. They say I've got a 'killer's' eye." + +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." + +"Isn't there a flaw in every character?" + +"Human nature being imperfect, there must be. What is yours; suppressed +murderousness?" + +"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?" + +"But you must have something back of it," insisted the girl. "Are you a +good shot?" + +"Nothing fancy; there are twenty better in town." + +"Yet you pin some faith to your 'gun,'" she pointed out. + +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. + +"I'd have only barked that fellow, if he'd been a man," he observed, +shaking his head at the second mark. + +"You frightened me," complained Io. + +"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." + +"Very interesting. But I've got luncheon to cook," said Io. + +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: + +"I might have known there couldn't be any one else like you." + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +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. + +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. + +"What'd she stop for, Ban?" + +"Special orders." + +"Didn't say nothin' about havin' a ravin' may-ni-ac aboard, did theh?" + +"No." + +"Ban, was you ever in the State of Ohio?" + +"A long time ago." + +"Are Ohio folks liable to be loony?" + +"Not more than others, I reckon, Jimmy." + +"Pretty enthoosiastic about themselves, though, ain't theh?" + +"Why, I don't know. It's a nice country there, Jimmy." + +"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." + +"For what?" + +"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.'" + +"What did he say to that?" asked Banneker indulgently. + +"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." + +Said Ban, after frowning consideration: + +"You didn't see any lady around the shack, did you, Jimmy?" + +"Not on your life," replied the little man indignantly. "I ain't had +anything like that since I took the mail-teamin' contract." + +"How good time do you think Puffy Pete could make across-desert in case +I should want it?" inquired the agent after a pause. + +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 _git_ anywhere, him and me'll git you +there. You know that, Ban." + +Banneker nodded comradely and the post chugged away. + +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. + +"Get me some flowers for the table, Ban," she directed. "I want it to +look festive." + +"Why, in particular?" + +"Because I'm afraid we won't have many more luncheons together." + +He made no comment, but went out and returned with the flowers. Meantime +Io had made up her mind. + +"I've had an unpleasant surprise, Ban." + +"I was afraid so." + +She glanced up quickly. "Did you see him?" + +"No. Mindle, the mail transfer man, did." + +"Oh! Well, that was Aleck Babson. 'Babbling Babson,' he's called at the +clubs. He's the most inveterate gossip in New York." + +"It's a long way from New York," pointed out Banneker. + +"Yes; but he has a long tongue. Besides, he'll see the Westerleys and my +other friends in Paradiso, and babble to them." + +"Suppose he does?" + +"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." + +He nodded. Comfort and comprehension were in his silence. + +"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." + +They lunched a little soberly and thoughtfully. + +"And I wanted it to be festive to-day," said Io wistfully, speaking out +her thoughts as usual. "Ban, does Miss Camilla smoke?" + +"I don't know. Why?" + +"Because if she does, you'll think it all right. And I want a cigarette +now." + +"If you do, I'll _know_ it's all right, Butterfly," returned her +companion fetching a box from a shelf. + +"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?" + +"No. It came from town. Don't you like it?" + +"It's quite curious and interesting. Never mind, my dear; I won't tease +you." + +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. + +"Read me something out of your favorite book, Ban.... No; this one." + +She handed him the thick mail-order catalogue. With a gravity equal to +her own he took it. + +"What will you have?" + +"Let the spirit of Sears-Roebuck decide. Open at random and expound." + +He thrust a finger between the leaves and began: + +"Our Special, Fortified Black Fiber Trunk for Hard Travel. Made of +Three-Ply Ven--" + +"Oh, to have my trunks again!" sighed the girl. "Turn to something else. +I don't like that. It reminds me of travel." + +Obedient, Banneker made another essay: + +"Clay County Clay Target Traps. Easily Adjusted to the Elevation--" + +"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." + +This time the explorer plunged deep into the volume. + +"How to Make Home Home-like. An Invaluable Counselor for the Woman of +the Household--" + +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?" + +"I've never had much opportunity to judge about home, you know." + +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." + +"You needn't be. One gets used to being an air-plant without roots." + +"Yet you wouldn't have fitted out this shack," she pointed out shrewdly, +"unless you had the instincts of home." + +"That's true enough. Fortunately it's the kind of home I can take along +when they transfer me." + +Io went to the door and looked afar on the radiant splendor of the +desert, and, nearer, into the cool peace of the forest. + +"But you can't take all this," she reminded him. + +"No. I can't take this." + +"Shall you miss it?" + +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." + +"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. + +"What will take me?" + +"Something inside you. Something unawakened. 'Something lost beyond the +ranges.' You'll know, and you'll obey it." + +"Shall I ever come back, O seeress?" + +At the question her eyes grew dreamy and distant. Her voice when she +spoke sank to a low-pitched monotone. + +"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?" + +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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Would he listen to mine, I wonder?" + +"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." + +"Absolution! If it were only as easy as that! This _is_ a haunted +place.... Why should I be here at all? _Why_ didn't I go when I should? +Why a thousand things?" + +"Chance." + +"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?" + +"Nothing. That's nerves." + +"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?" + +"I'd come down, of course. But you'd have to be careful about rattlers," +answered the practical Ban. + +"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?" + +"She came for her health." + +"That isn't what I asked you, my dear. Do you know what she's doing?" + +"No. She never told me." + +"Shall I tell you?" + +"No." + +"It's interesting. Aren't you curious?" + +"If she wanted me to know, she'd tell me." + +"Indubitably correct, and quite praiseworthy," mocked the girl. "Never +mind; you know how to be staunch to your friends." + +"In this country a man who doesn't is reckoned a yellow dog." + +"He is in any decent country. So take that with you when you go." + +"I'm not going," he asserted with an obstinate set to his jaw. + +"Wait and see," she taunted. "So you won't let me send you books?" she +questioned after a pause. + +"No." + +"No, I thank you," she prompted. + +"No, I thank you," he amended. "I'm an uncouth sort of person, but I +meant the 'thank you.'" + +"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." + +"If it's anything, it's training. My father was a stickler for forms, in +spite of being a sort of hobo." + +"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." + +"What is that?" + +Her answer surprised him. "The Bible." + +"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." + +"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." + +"You have a sort of religious feeling for success, though, haven't you?" +he reminded her slyly. + +"Not at all. Just human, common sense." + +"But your creed as you've just given it, the rules of the game and that; +that's precisely the Bible formula, I believe." + +"How do you know?" she caught him up. "You haven't a Bible in the place, +so far as I've noticed." + +"No; I haven't." + +"You should have." + +"Probably. But I can't, somehow, adjust myself to that advice as coming +from you." + +"Because you don't understand what I'm getting at. It isn't religious +advice." + +"Then what is it?" + +"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--_moi qui parle_. They +offered me an instructorship in Literature when I graduated. I even +threatened to take it, just for a joke on Dad. _Now_, will you be good +and accept my fully explained and diagrammed Bible without fearing that +I have designs on your soul?" + +"Yes." + +"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." + +"All right. I'll be glad to. What will you do between now and four +o'clock?" + +"Prowl in your library and unearth more of your secrets." + +"You're welcome if you can find any. I don't deal in 'em." + +When Banneker, released from his duties until evening train time, +rejoined her, and they were riding along the forest trail, he said: + +"You've started me to theorizing about myself." + +"Do it aloud," she invited. + +"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?" + +"It sounds reasonable enough. You might put it more simply by saying +that you were tired. But by now you ought to be rested." + +"Therefore I ought to be stirring myself so as to get tired again?" + +"If you don't stir, you'll rust." + +"Rust is a painless death for useless mechanism." + +She shot an impatient side-glance at him. "Either you're a hundred years +old," she said, "or that's sheer pose." + +"Perhaps it is a sort of pose. If so, it's a self-protective one." + +"Suppose I asked you to come to New York?" + +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. + +"What to do?" + +"Sell tickets at the Grand Central Station, of course!" she shot back at +him. "Ban, you _are_ aggravating! 'What to do?' Father would find you +some sort of place while you were fitting in." + +'No. I wouldn't take a job from you any more than I'd take anything +else." + +"You carry principles to the length of absurdity. Come and get your own +job, then. You're not timid, are you?" + +"Not particularly. I'm just contented." + +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?" + +"I've been trying not to think of that," he said slowly. + +"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 _am_ fey." She +smiled to him slantwise. + +"It's the air," he answered judicially. "There's another storm brewing +somewhere or I'm no guesser. More trouble for the schedule." + +"That's right!" she cried eagerly. "_Be_ the Atkinson and St. Philip +station-agent again. Let's talk about trains. It's--it's so reliable." + +"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." + +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. + +"Hark!" she exclaimed. + +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. + +"Heavens!" whispered Banneker. "Who is it?" + +"Camilla Van Arsdale, of course. Didn't you know?" + +"I knew she was musical. I didn't know she had a voice like that." + +"Ten years ago New York was wild over it." + +"But why--" + +"Hush! She's beginning again." + +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: + +"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: + +"'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.'" + +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." + +"Her own? Does she write music?" + +"She is Royce Melvin, the composer. Does that mean anything to you?" + +He shook his head. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Ah; that's another secret, and one that I shan't tell you," returned Io +gravely. "There's the piano again." + +A few indeterminate chords came to their ears. There followed a jangling +disharmony. They waited, but there was nothing more. They rode on. + +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. + +"Carry her into her room," directed Io. + +Banneker picked up the tall, strong-built form without effort and +deposited it on the bed in the inner room. + +"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." + +One after another Banneker tried the bottles on the dresser. "Here it +is. Ammonia," he said. + +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: + +"Toujours a toi. W." + +"She's coming back," said Io's voice. "No. Don't come nearer. You'll +shut off the air. Find me a fan." + +He ran to the outer room and came back with a palm-leaf. + +"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?" + +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. + +An hour later, Io came out to Banneker waiting fearfully in the big +room. + +"She won't have a doctor. I've given her the strychnia and she insists +she'll be all right." + +"Don't you think I ought to go for the doctor, anyway?" + +"She wouldn't see him. She's very strong-willed.... That's a wonderful +woman, Ban." Io's voice shook a little. + +"Yes." + +"How did you know about the picture?" + +"I saw it on the dresser. And when I saw her eyes, I guessed." + +"Yes; there's only one thing a woman wants like _that_, 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." + +"I've forgotten it," replied Banneker gravely. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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 _was_ 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! + +He wrote and dispatched a message to the reporter in care of the +Angelica City Herald: + +Glad to see you, but you are wasting your time. No such person could be +here without my knowing it. Thanks for article. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +Miss Van Arsdale was much better when he rode over in the morning, but +Io looked piteously worn and tired. + +"You've had no rest," he accused her, away from the sick woman's +hearing. + +"Rest enough of its kind, but not much sleep," said Io. + +"But you've got to have sleep," he insisted. "Let me stay and look after +her to-night." + +"It wouldn't be of any use." + +"Why not?" + +"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." + +"And wake up to find a sidewinder crawling over you, and a tarantula +nestling in your ear. Don't think of it." + +"Ban," called the voice of Camilla Van Arsdale from the inner room, +clear and firm as he had ever heard it. + +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." + +"Now, Miss Camilla," protested Banneker, "you mustn't--" + +"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?" + +"What, Miss Camilla?" + +"That necktie. It isn't in your usual style. Where did you get it?" + +"Sent to Angelica City for it. Don't you like it?" he returned, trying +for the nonchalant air, but not too successfully. + +"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?" + +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. + +"Go out and say good-night to Miss Welland," she ordered, "and tell her +to go to bed. I've taken a sleeping powder." + +Banneker obeyed. He rode home slowly and thoughtfully. His sleep was +sound enough that night. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Banneker, leaning against the slender tree-trunk, dreamed over her, +happily and aimlessly. + +Io opened her eyes to meet his. She stirred softly and smiled at him. + +"So you discovered me," she said. + +"How long have you been here?" + +She studied the sun a moment before replying. "Several hours." + +"Did you walk over in the night?" + +"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." + +"I'm not going to scold you. I'm going to feed you. The coffee's on." + +"How good!" she cried, getting to her feet. "Am I a sight? I feel +frowsy." + +"There's a couple of buckets of water up in my room. Help yourself while +I set out the breakfast." + +In fifteen minutes she was down, freshened and joyous. + +"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?" + +"That's a foolish question." + +"It's meant to be. And it's meant to make you smile. Why don't you? You +_are_ worried. 'Fess up. What's happened?" + +"I've had a letter from the reporter in Angelica City." + +"Oh! Did he send your article?" + +"He did. But that isn't the point. He says he's coming up here again." + +"What for?" + +"You." + +"Does he know I'm here? Did he mention my name?" + +"No. But he's had some information that probably points to you." + +"What did you answer?" + +Ban told her. "I think that will hold him off," he said hopefully. + +"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." + +"You can refuse to see him." + +"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?" + +"You must be ready to go." + +"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?" + +"That depends on whether Gardner comes, and how he comes." + +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." + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +"How?" asked Banneker. + +"From my marketing. Probably from Pedro." + +"Very likely from the patron of the Sick Coyote that you and I met on +our walk," added the girl. + +"So the wise thing is for her to go," concluded Miss Van Arsdale. +"Unless she is willing to risk the publicity." + +"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. + +"Not now, though," said Banneker. + +"Why not?" asked both women. He answered Io. + +"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!" + +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. + +"What if he does come?" asked Miss Van Arsdale + +"I'll get word to you and get her out some way." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +Party here anxious to get through to Manzanita quick. Could auto make +upper desert? + +No (clicked Banneker in response). Describe party. + +The answer came back confirming his suspicion: + +Thin, nice-spoken, wears goggles, smokes cork-tips. Arrived Five from +Angelica held here. + +Tell impossible by any route (instructed Banneker). Wire result. + +An hour later came the reply: + +Won't try to-night. Probably horse to-morrow. + +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. + +Banneker returned from that interview with a map upon which had been +scrawled a few words in shaky, scholarly writing. + +"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." + +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. + +"How do you like yourself in print?" he inquired. + +"Pretty well," answered Banneker. "It read better than I expected." + +"It always does, until you get old in the business. How would you like a +New York job on the strength of it?" + +Banneker stared. "You mean that I could get on a paper just by writing +that?" + +"I didn't say so. Though I've known poorer stuff land more experienced +men." + +"More experienced; that's the point, isn't it? I've had none at all." + +"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." + +"I see," muttered Banneker thoughtfully. + +"Where does Miss Van Arsdale live?" asked the reporter without the +smallest change of tone. + +"What do you want to see Miss Van Arsdale for?" returned the other, his +instantly defensive manner betraying him to the newspaper man. + +"You know as well as I do," smiled Gardner. + +"Miss Van Arsdale has been ill. She's a good deal of a recluse. She +doesn't like to see people." + +"Does her visitor share that eccentricity?" + +Banneker made no reply. + +"See here, Banneker," said the reporter earnestly; "I'd like to know why +you're against me in this thing." + +"What thing?" fenced the agent. + +"My search for Io Welland." + +"Who is Io Welland, and what are you after her for?" asked Banneker +steadily. + +"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 fiance, 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." + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"No, thank you." + +"Not interested? Are you going to take me over to Miss Van Arsdale's?" + +"No." + +"Why not?" + +"Why should I? It's no part of my business as an employee of the road." + +"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." + +Banneker took and read the letter. While not explicit, it was +sufficiently direct. + +"That's official, isn't it?" said Gardner mildly. + +"Yes." + +"Well?" + +"And this is official," added Banneker calmly. "The company can go to +hell. Tell that to the D.S. with my compliments, will you?" + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Thanks. Glad to, if it won't trouble you. See you later." + +"Perhaps not. I'm turning in early. I'll leave the shack unlocked for +you." + +Gardner opened the outer door and was blown back into the station by an +explosive gust of soaking wind. + +"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?" + +"Such as it is. I'll go over with you." + +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. + +Io saw the gleam of his flashlight and ran to the door to meet him. + +"Are you ready?" he asked briefly. + +"I can be in fifteen minutes." She turned away, asking no questions. + +"Dress warmly," he said. "It's an all-night trip. By the way, can you +swim?" + +"For hours at a time." + +Camilla Van Arsdale entered the room. "Are you taking her away, Ban? +Where?" + +"To Miradero, on the Southwestern and Sierra." + +"But that's insanity," protested the other. "Sixty miles, isn't it? And +over trailless desert." + +"All of that. But we're not going across country. We're going by water." + +"By water? Ban, you _are_ out of your mind. Where is there any +waterway?" + +"Dry Bed Arroyo. It's running bank-full. My boat is waiting there." + +"But it will be dangerous. Terribly dangerous. Io, you mustn't." + +"I'll go," said the girl quietly, "if Ban says so." + +"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." + +"Map?" cried Miss Van Arsdale. "What use is a map when you can't see +your hand before your face?" + +"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. + +"May I take a suitcase?" asked Io. + +"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?" + +"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." + +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." + +"But the danger." + +"_Che sara, sara_," returned Io lightly. "I'll trust him to take care of +me." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"I? Hurt him?" + +"Of course he won't realize it until you've gone. Then I'm afraid to +think what is coming to him." + +"And I'm afraid to think what is coming to me," replied the girl, very +low. + +"Ah, you!" retorted her hostess, dismissing that consideration with +contemptuous lightness. "You have plenty of compensations, plenty of +resources." + +"Hasn't he?" + +"Perhaps. Up to now. What will he do when he wakes up to an empty +world?" + +"Write, won't he? And then the world won't be empty." + +"He'll think it so. That is why I'm sorry for him." + +"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." + +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." + +"You're bitter." + +"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?" + +"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." + +She shivered a little and her lids drooped over the luster of her +dreaming eyes. + +"And you want to tempt him out of this to a world where he would be a +wretched misfit," accused the older woman. + +"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...." + +"And when you get back into the world, what will you do, I wonder?" + +"I won't send for him, if that's what you mean." + +"But what _will_ you do, I wonder?" + +"I wonder," repeated Io somberly. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"It's beckoning us," said Io, leaning to Banneker, her hand on his +shoulder. + +"We must wait for more light," he answered. + +"Will you trust yourself to _that_?" asked Camilla Van Arsdale, with a +gesture of fear and repulsion toward the torrent. + +"Anywhere!" returned Io. There was exaltation in her voice. + +"I can't understand it," cried the older woman. "How do you know what +may lie before you?" + +"That is the thrill of it." + +"There may be death around the first curve. It's so unknown; so secret +and lawless." + +"Ah, and I'm lawless!" cried Io. "I could defy the gods on a night like +this!" + +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. + +"Now we can see our way," said Banneker, the practical. + +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. + +"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." + +"But can you see?" objected Miss Van Arsdale, directing a troubled look +at the breaking sky. + +"If we can't, we'll run her ashore until we can." + +He handed Io the flashlight and the map. + +"You'll want me in the bow seat if we're traveling reversed," said she. + +He assented. "Good sailorwoman!" + +"I don't like it," protested Miss Van Arsdale. "It's a mad business. +Ban, you oughtn't to take her." + +"It's too late to talk of that," said Io. + +"Ready?" questioned Banneker. + +"Yes." + +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. + +"We'll wire you from Miradero," she promised. "You'll find the message +in the morning." + +The woman, mastering herself with a difficult effort, held out her hand +to Banneker. + +"If you won't be persuaded," she said, "then good--" + +"No," he broke in quickly. "That's bad luck. We shall be all right." + +"Good luck, then," returned his friend, and turned away into the night. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Ban," she called. + +He tossed an oar to indicate that he had heard. + +"Come back and sit by me." + +He seemed to hesitate. + +"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." + +Ban shook his head. + +"'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." + +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. + +"Hush--sh--sh--sh--sh!" said something unseen, with an immense effect of +restraint and enforced quiet. + +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. + +"What is it?" she asked as she joined him. + +"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?" + +He bent over it, conning its detail by the light of the flash which she +turned on. + +"We should be about here," he indicated, touching the paper, "I'll go +ahead and take a look." + +"Shan't I go with you?" + +"Better stay quiet and get all the rest you can." + +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." + +"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." + +"It had been there some time," pointed out Banneker. "And if we couldn't +have come this way, I'd have found some other." + +"I believe you would," crowed Io softly. + +"So, I don't believe in fate; not the ready-made kind. Things aren't +that easy. If I did--" + +"If you did?" she prompted as he paused. + +"I'd get back into the boat with you and throw away the oars." + +"I dare you!" she cried recklessly. + +"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." + +"Where?" + +"How should I know? In the Enchanted Canyon where it enters the +Mountains of Fulfillment.... They're not on this map." + +"They're not on any map. More's the pity. And then?" + +"Then we'd rest. And after that we'd climb to the Plateau Beyond the +Clouds where the Fadeless Gardens are, and there..." + +"And there?" + +"There we'd hear the Undying Voices singing." + +"Should we sing, too?" + +"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.'" + +"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." + +"You haven't let me go on to the 'live happy ever after' part," he +complained. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +On the crest of a sand-billow sprawled a huge organ-cactus, brandishing +its arms in gnomish derision of their presence. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Yet"--he turned a slow smile to her--"you were just now calling +Experience bad names; a horrid hag, wasn't it?" + +"At least, she's life," retorted the girl. + +"Yes. She's life." + +"Ban, I want to go on. The whole universe is in motion. Why must we +stand still?" + +They reembarked. 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. + +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. + +"We're making better than ten miles an hour," Banneker called over his +shoulder to his passenger. + +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. + +"Grub!" he announced gayly. + +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. + +Coffee, when her man brought it, seemed too artificial for the time and +place. She shook her head. She was not hungry. + +"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." + +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: + +"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." + +"It will stand alone," he answered. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +"The dam! The dam! The dam!" he shouted. "I'd forgotten about it. Go +back. Turn on the flash. Look for shore." + +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. + +For a moment he leaned, gasping, against a stump. When he spoke, it was +to reproach himself bitterly. + +"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." + +"Is it a high dam?" she asked. + +"In this flood we'd be pounded to death the moment we were over. Listen! +You can hear it." + +The rain had diminished a little. Above its insistence sounded a deeper, +more formidable beat and thrill. + +"We must be quite close to it," she said. + +"A few rods, probably. Let me have the light. I want to explore before +we start out." + +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: + +"Io." + +"It's the first time you've called me that. Well, Ban?" + +"Can you stand it to--to have me tell you something?" + +"Yes." + +"We're not on the shore." + +"Where, then? An island?" + +"There aren't any islands here. It must be a bit of the mainland cut off +by the flood." + +"I'm not afraid, if that's what you mean. We can stand it until dawn." + +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. + +"How much longer?" she asked in a whisper. + +"Not long. It's just a tiny patch. And the river is rising every +minute." + +"How long?" she persisted. + +"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. + +"I brought you. Whatever there is, we'll go to it together." + +"You're wonderful beyond all wonders. Aren't you afraid?" + +"I don't know. It isn't so much fear, though I dread to think of that +hammering-down weight of water." + +"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." + +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...." + +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. + +"It's a headlight!" he cried. "A train! Look, Io! The mainland. It's +only a couple of rods away." + +He slipped from her arms, ran to the boat. + +"What are you going to do?" she called weakly. "Ban! You can never make +it." + +"I've got to. It's our only chance." + +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. + +"Let me swim with you," she begged. + +"You're not strong enough." + +"I don't care. We'd go together ... I--I can't face it alone, Ban." + +"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." + +"Yes," she said submissively. + +"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." + +"I'll give you the light." + +"That may help. Then you make fast under the forward seat of the boat. +Be sure it's tight." + +"Yes, Ban." + +"Twitch three times on the rope to let me know when you're ready and +shove out and upstream as strongly as you can." + +"Can you hold it against the current?" + +"I must. If I do, you'll drift around against the bank. If I don't--I'll +follow you." + +"No, Ban," she implored. "Not you, too. There's no need--" + +"I'll follow you," said he. "Now, Io." + +He kissed her gently, stepped back, took a run and flung himself upward +and outward into the ravening current. + +She saw a foaming thresh that melted into darkness.... + +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. + +It was the rope. + +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. + +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! + +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!... + +She went to Banneker, still helplessly shaking, and put her firm, slight +hands on his shoulders. + +"It's all right, Ban," she said soothingly. "We're out of it." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +"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. + +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? + +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.... + +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. + +"Ban; promise me something." + +"Anything." + +"There may be a time coming for us when you won't understand." + +"Understand what?" + +"Me. Perhaps I shan't understand myself." + +"You'll always understand yourself, Io." + +"If that comes--when that comes--Ban, there's something in the book, +_our_ book, that I've left you to read." + +"'The Voices'?" + +"Yes. I've fastened the pages together so that you can't read it too +soon." + +"When, then?" + +"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?" + +"Yes." + +"Always?" + +"Always." + +"No matter what happens?" + +"No matter what happens." + +"It's like a litany." She laughed tremulously.... "Here's the train. +Good-bye, dear." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +... Why had there been no letter?... + +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. + +... Why didn't she write? A word! Anything! + +... Had she written Miss Van Arsdale? + +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. + +Yes; Miss Van Arsdale had heard. Io Welland was in New York, and well. +That was all. But Banneker felt an undermining reserve. + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"............................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." + +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. + +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? + +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. + +At noon Camilla Van Arsdale rode up to the station. + +"Are you ill, Ban?" was her greeting, as soon as she saw his face. + +"No, Miss Camilla. I'm going away." + +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. + +"I haven't said that I was going to New York." + +"No; there is much you haven't said." + +"I haven't felt much like talking. Even to you." + +"Don't go, Ban." + +"I've got to. I've got to get away from here." + +"And your position with the railroad?" + +"I've resigned. It's all arranged." He pointed to the pile of letters, +his night's work. + +"What are you going to do?" + +"How do I know! I beg your pardon, Miss Camilla. Write, I suppose." + +"Write here." + +"There's nothing to write about." + +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. + +"Aren't there people to write about there?" she said. "Tragedies and +comedies and the human drama? Barrie found it in a duller place." + +"Not until he had seen the world first," he retorted quickly. "And I'm +not a Barrie.... I can't stay here, Miss Camilla." + +"Poor Ban! Youth is always expecting life to fulfill itself. It +doesn't." + +"No; it doesn't--unless you make it." + +"And how will you make it?" + +"I'm going to get on a newspaper." + +"It isn't so easy as all that, Ban." + +"I've been writing." + +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. + +"Oh, if you've a promise, or even a fair expectation of a place. But, +Ban, I wouldn't go to New York, anyway." + +"Why not?" + +"It's no use." + +His strong eyebrows went up. "Use?" + +"You won't find her there." + +"She's not in New York?" + +"No." + +"You've heard from her, then? Where is she?" + +"Gone abroad." + +Upon that he meditated. "She'll come back, though." + +"Not to you." + +He waited, silent, attentive, incredulous. + +"Ban; she's married." + +"Married!" + +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. + +"Married!" he repeated. "Io! She couldn't." + +The woman, startled by the conviction in his tone, wondered how much +that might imply. + +"She wrote me," said she presently. + +"That she was married?" + +"That she would be by the time the letter reached me." + +("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.") + +"Ah!" said Ban. "But that--" + +"And I have the newspaper since with an account of the wedding.... Ban! +Don't look like that!" + +"Like what?" said he stupidly. + +"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. + +"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. + +"You want me to leave you now?" + +He nodded. "I've got to think." + +"When would you leave, Ban, if you do go?" + +"I don't know." + +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! + +The flame of the greedy stove licked up the memento, but not the memory. + +"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." + + + + +PART II + +THE VISION + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +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 _locale_, 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. + +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. + +"My name is Banneker," he had said, immediately the door was opened to +him. "Can I get a room here?" + +"There is a room vacant," admitted the spirit of the house unwillingly. + +"I'd like to see it." + +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. + +"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. + +"The price is five dollars a week." + +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. + +"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. + +"Is that necessary? They didn't ask me when I registered at the hotel." + +Mrs. Brashear stared, then smiled. "A hotel is different. Where are you +stopping?" + +"At the St. Denis." + +"A very nice place. Who directed you here?" + +"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--" + +"Of course. Well, Mr. Banneker, for the protection of the house I must +have references." + +"References? You mean letters from people?" + +"Not necessarily. Just a name or two from whom I can make inquiries. You +have friends, I suppose." + +"No." + +"Your family--" + +"I haven't any." + +"Then the people in the place where you work. What is your business, by +the way?" + +"I expect to go on a newspaper." + +"Expect?" Mrs. Brashear stiffened in defense of the institution. "You +have no place yet?" + +He answered not her question, but her doubt. "As far as that is +concerned, I'll pay in advance." + +"It isn't the financial consideration," she began loftily--"alone," she +added more honestly. "But to take in a total stranger--" + +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." + +Though it was delivered with entire gravity, the speech provoked a tired +and struggling smile on the landlady's plain features. She looked. + +"Well?" he queried pleasantly. "What do you think? Will you take a +chance?" + +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: + +"You've had a spell of sickness, haven't you?" + +"No," he said, a little sharply. "Where did you get that idea?" + +"Your eyes look hot." + +"I haven't been sleeping very well. That's all." + +"Too bad. You've had a loss, maybe," she ventured sympathetically. + +"A loss? No.... Yes. You might call it a loss. You'll take me, then?" + +"You can move in right away," said Mrs. Brashear recklessly. + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"And he sits at his table clipping pieces out of them and arranging them +in piles," volunteered little Mrs. Bolles, the trained nurse on the top +floor. "I've seen him as I go past." + +"Help-wanted ads," suggested Wickert, who had suffered experience in +that will-o'-the-wisp chase. + +"Then he hasn't got a job," deduced Mr. Hainer, a heavy man of heavy +voice and heavy manner, middle-aged, a small-salaried accountant. + +"Maybe he's got money," suggested Lambert. + +"Or maybe he's a dead beat; he looks on the queer," opined young +Wickert. + +"He has a very fine and sensitive face. I think he has been ill." 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. + +"Anybody know his name?" asked Lambert. + +"Barnacle," said young Wickert wittily. "Something like that, anyway. +Bannsocker, maybe. Guess he's some sort of a Swede." + +"Well, I only hope he doesn't clear out some night with his trunk on his +back and leave poor Mrs. Brashear to whistle," declared Mrs. Bolles +piously. + +The worn face of the landlady, with its air of dispirited motherliness, +appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Banneker is a _gentleman_," she said. + +"Gentleman" from Mrs. Brashear, with that intonation, meant one who, out +of or in a job, paid his room rent. The new lodger had earned the title +by paying his month in advance. Having settled that point, she withdrew, +followed by the two other women. Lambert, taking a floppy hat from the +walnut rack in the hall, went his way, leaving young Wickert and Mr. +Hainer to support the discussion, which they did in tones less discreet +than the darkness warranted. + +"Where would he hail from, would you think?" queried the elder. "Iowa, +maybe? Or Arkansas?" + +"Search me," answered young Wickert. "But it was a small-town carpenter +built those honest-to-Gawd clothes. I'd say the corn-belt." + +"Dressed up for the monthly meeting of the Farmers' Alliance, all but +the oil on his hair. He forgot that," chuckled the accountant. + +"He's got a fine chance in Nuh Yawk--of buying a gold brick cheap," +prophesied the worldly Wickert out of the depths of his metropolitan +experience. "Somebody ought to put him onto himself." + +A voice from the darkened window above said, with composure, "That will +be all right. I'll apply to you for advice." + +"Oh, Gee!" whispered young Wickert, in appeal to his companion. "How +long's he been there?" + +Acute hearing, it appeared, was an attribute of the man above, for he +answered at once: + +"Just put my head out for a breath of air when I heard your kind +expressions of solicitude. Why? Did I miss something that came earlier?" + +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: + +"We didn't mean to get fresh with you. It was just talk." + +"Very interesting talk." + +Wickert produced a suspiciously jeweled case. "Have a cigarette?" + +"I have some of my own, thank you." + +"Give you a light?" + +The metropolitan worldling struck a match and held it up. This was on +the order of strategy. 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. + +"What is the matter with my clothes?" he asked. + +"Why--well," began Wickert, unhappy and fumbling with his ideas; "Oh, +_they_'re all right." + +"For a meeting of the Farmers' Alliance." Banneker was smiling +good-naturedly. "But for the East?" + +"Well, if you really want to know," began Wickert doubtfully. "If you +won't get sore--" Banneker nodded his assurance. "Well, they're jay. No +style. No snap. Respectable, and that lets 'em out." + +"They don't look as if they were made in New York or for New York?" + +Young Mr. Wickert apportioned his voice equitably between a laugh and a +snort. "No: nor in Hoboken!" he retorted. "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!" + +"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: + +"If Bernholz's makes 'em that way, you can bet it's up to the +split-second of date, and _maybe_ they beat the pistol by a jump. I +bluffed for a raise of five dollars, on the strength of this outfit, and +got it off the bat. 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?" + +Banneker shook his head. The name for which he sought had come to him. +"Did you ever hear of Mertoun, somewhere on Fifth Avenue?" + +"Yes. And I've seen Central Park and the Statue of Liberty," railed the +other. "Thinkin' of patternizing Mertoun, was you?" + +"Yes, I'd like to." + +"Like to! There's a party at the Astorbilt's to-morrow night; you'd +_like_ 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." + +"Much obliged, but I'm not buying yet. Where would you say a fellow +would have a chance to see the best-dressed men?" + +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 _think_ 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?" + +"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. + +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: + +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. _But +you must not know it_. Important, this is!... I could, of course, give +you letters of introduction. "_Les morts vont vite_," it is true, and I +am dead to that world, not wholly without the longings of a would-be +_revenant_; 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-- + +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. + +He was still pathetically young and inexperienced. And he had been badly +hurt. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"You want to see me?" + +"Yes. I sent in my name." + +"Did you? When?" + +"At two-forty-seven, thirty," replied the visitor with railroad +accuracy. + +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?" + +"What I'm going to be," amended Banneker. + +"There is no opening here at present." + +"That's formula, isn't it?" asked the young man, smiling. + +The other stared. "It is. But how do you know?" + +"It's the tone, I suppose. I've had to use it a good deal myself, in +railroading." + +"Observant, as well as exact and patient. Come in. I'm sorry I misplaced +your card. The name is--?" + +"Banneker, E. Banneker." + +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. + +"So you want to do newspaper work?" + +"Yes." + +"Why?" + +"I think I can make a go of it." + +"Any experience?" + +"None to speak of. I've written a few things. I thought you might +remember my name." + +"Your name? Banneker? No. Why should I?" + +"You published some of my things in the Sunday edition, lately. From +Manzanita, California." + +"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?" + +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. + +"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--" + +"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." + +"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." + +Mr. Gordon smiled broadly, the thin blade poised over a plump, reddened +knuckle. + +"Would you! Now, why?" + +"I've been reading it. I like the way it does things." + +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?" + +"None." + +"You were going to The Sphere first? On the promise of a job?" + +"No. Because they printed what I wrote." + +"The Sphere's ways are not our ways," pronounced Mr. Gordon primly. +"It's a fundamental difference in standards." + +"I can see that." + +"Oh, you can, can you?" chuckled the other. "But it's true that we have +no opening here." + +(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.) + +"I can wait." (They often said that.) "For a while," added the youth +thoughtfully. + +"How long have you been in New York?" + +"Thirty-three days." + +"And what have you been doing?" + +"Reading newspapers." + +"No! Reading--That's rather surprising. All of them?" + +"All that I could manage." + +"Some were so bad that you couldn't worry through them, eh?" asked the +other with appreciation. + +"Not that. But I didn't know the foreign languages except French, and +Spanish, and a little Italian." + +"The foreign-language press, too. Remarkable!" murmured the other. "Do +you mind telling me what your idea was?" + +"It was simple enough. As I wanted to get on a newspaper, I thought I +ought to find out what newspapers were made of." + +"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?" + +"No; not all," replied Banneker. + +"Not? What have you left out?" + +"Society news" was the answer, delivered less promptly than the other +replies. + +Bestowing a twinkle of mingled amusement and conjecture upon the +applicant's clothing, Mr. Gordon said: + +"You don't approve of our social records? Or you're not interested? Or +why is it that you neglect this popular branch?" + +"Personal reasons." + +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. + +"Hum! And this notion of making an intensive study of the papers; was +that original with you?" + +"Well, no, not entirely. I got it from a man who made himself a bank +president in seven years." + +"Yes? How did he do that?" + +"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." + +"A sound theory, I dare say. Most financiers aren't so revealing." + +"He and I were padding the hoof together. We were both hoboes then." + +The managing editor looked up, alert, from his knuckle-tapping. "From +bank president to hobo. Was his bank an important one?" + +"The biggest in a medium-sized city." + +"And does that suggest nothing to you, as a prospective newspaper man?" + +"What? Write him up?" + +"It would make a fairly sensational story." + +"I couldn't do that. He was my friend. He wouldn't like it." + +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." + +"You and I," said Banneker slowly and in the manner of the West, "can't +deal." + +"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, _except_ 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?" + +"Railroading. Station-agent." + +"Where were you educated?" + +"Nowhere. Wherever I could pick it up." + +"Which means everywhere. Ever read George Borrow?" + +"Yes." + +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." + +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. + +As the day-desk staff was about departing at six o'clock, Mr. Gordon +sauntered over to the city desk looking mildly apologetic. + +"I practically had to take that young desert antelope on," said he. + +"Too ingenuous to turn down," surmised the city editor. + +"Ingenuous! He's heir to the wisdom of the ages. And now I'm afraid I've +made a ghastly mistake." + +"Something wrong with him?" + +"I've had his stuff in the Sunday Sphere looked up." + +"Pretty weird?" put in Mallory, gliding into his beautifully fitting +overcoat. + +"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." + +Perfectly comprehending his superior's mode of indirect expression the +city editor replied: + +"You think so highly of him as that?" + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Oh!" said he. "How do you do! Could you find time to do some typing for +me quite soon?" + +It was said impulsively and was followed by a surge of dismay. Typing? +Type what? He had absolutely nothing on hand! + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +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. + +Banneker would go forward in the fascinating paths of exploration; but +there were other considerations. + +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? + +Watch the clubs, young Wickert had advised. Banneker strolled up Fifth +Avenue, branching off here and there, into the more promising side +streets. + +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. + +"How are you?" he said with an accent of surprise and pleasure. + +Cressey's expressionless face turned a little. There was no response in +kind to Banneker's smile. + +"Oh! H'ware you!" said he vaguely, and passed on. + +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. + +"I reckon I'll have to lick this town and lick it good before it learns +to be friendly." + +A hand fell on his arm. He turned to face Cressey. + +"You're the feller that bossed the wreck out there in the desert, aren't +you? You're--lessee--Banneker." + +"I am." The tone was curt. + +"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?" + +"No. I'm living here." + +"That so? So am I. Come into my club and let's talk. I'm glad to see +you, Mr. Banneker." + +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! + +"Banzai!" said the cheerful host over his cocktail. "Welcome to our +city. Hope you like it." + +"I do," said Banneker, lifting his glass in response. + +"Where are you living?" + +"Grove Street." + +Cressey knit his brows. "Where's that? Harlem?" + +"No. Over west of Sixth Avenue." + +"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--" + +"Yes; that's it," smiled Banneker. "The treasury isn't up to bachelor +suites, yet awhile. I've only just got a job." + +"What is it?" + +"Newspaper work. The Morning Ledger." + +"Reporting?" A dubious expression clouded the candid cheerfulness of the +other's face. + +"Yes. What's the matter with that?" + +"Oh; I dunno. It's a piffling sort of job, ain't it?" + +"Piffling? How do you mean?" + +"Well, I supposed you had to ask a lot of questions and pry into other +people's business and--and all that sorta thing." + +"If nobody asked questions," pointed out Banneker, remembering Gardner's +resolute devotion to his professional ideals, "there wouldn't be any +news, would there?" + +"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." + +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. + +"Nothin' easier," was the ready response. "I'll take you right down to +Mertoun. Just one more and we're off." + +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. + +"Well, what _do_ I want? You tell me." + +"How far do you want to go? Will five hundred be too much?" + +"No." + +Cressey lost himself in mental calculations out of which he presently +delivered himself to this effect: + +"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?" + +"I haven't the money with me" remarked Banneker, his innocent mind on +the cash-with-order policy of Sears-Roebuck. + +"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." + +"When do I pay, then?" + +"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." + +"A check?" repeated the neophyte blankly. "Must I have a bank account?" + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +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." + +Prospectively poorer by something more than four hundred dollars, +Banneker emerged from Mertoun's with his mentor. + +"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?" + +"The Public Library." + +"Gawd!" said his companion, honestly shocked. "That's a gloomy hole, +ain't it?" + +"Not so bad, when you get used to it. I've been putting in three hours a +day there lately." + +"Whatever for?" + +"Oh, browsing. Book-hungry, I suppose. Carnegie hasn't discovered +Manzanita yet, you know; so I haven't had many library opportunities." + +"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?" + +Banneker's breath caught painfully in his throat. + +"D'you know who she was?" pursued the other, without pause for reply to +his previous question; and still without intermission continued: "Io +Welland. _That_'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." + +"I?" said Banneker, commanding himself with an effort; "Miss Welland +reported in with a slight injury. That's all." + +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?" + +"Mr. Vanney? No." + +"Better drop in on him." + +"He might try to give me another yellow-back," smiled the ex-agent. + +"Don't take Uncle Van for a fool. Once is plenty for him to be hit on +the nose." + +"Has he still got a green whisker?" + +"Go and see. He's asked about you two or three times in the last coupla +months." + +"But I've no errand with him." + +"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?" + +"Yes. I'll get in to see him some time to-morrow." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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 _corpus delicti_ 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. + +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. + +Such was the genesis of the "Local Vagrancies" which later were to set +Park Row speculating upon the signature "Eban." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +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. + +With far less difficulty than he had found in winning the notice of Mr. +Gordon, Banneker attained the sanctum of the capitalist. + +"Well, well!" was the important man's greeting as he shook hands. "Our +young friend from the desert! How do we find New York?" + +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. + +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.... + +"What is it that you have in mind, my boy?" inquired the benign Mr. +Vanney. + +"I start in on The Ledger next month." + +"The Ledger! Indeed! I did not know that you had any journalistic +experience." + +"I haven't." + +"Well. Er--hum! Journalism, eh? A--er--brilliant profession!" + +"You think well of it?" + +"I have many friends among the journalists. Fine fellows! Very fine +fellows." + +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. + +"The matter?" Mr. Vanney was blandly surprised. "Haven't I just said--" + +"Yes; you have. Would you let your son go into a newspaper office?" + +"My son? My son chose the profession of law." + +"But if he had wanted to be a journalist?" + +"Journalism does not perhaps offer the same opportunities for personal +advancement as some other lines," said the financier cautiously. + +"Why shouldn't it?" + +"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." + +"And the editor of it?" + +"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." + +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?" + +"Reporters can be a nuisance," replied Mr. Vanney fervently. "But they +can also be very useful." + +"But on the whole--" + +"On the whole it is a necessary apprenticeship. Very suitable for a +young man. Not a final career, in my judgment." + +"A reporter on The Ledger, then, is nothing but a reporter on The +Ledger." + +"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--" + +"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." + +"There are quite a number of people in New York," pointed out the +philosopher, Vanney. "Mostly crowd." + +"Yes," said Banneker. "You've told me something about the newspaper +business that I wanted to know." He rose. + +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?" + +"What kind of reporting?" + +"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." + +"What makes you think that I could be useful in that line?" asked +Banneker curiously. + +"My observations at the Manzanita wreck. You have, I believe, a knack +for handling a situation." + +"I can always try," accepted Banneker. + +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. + +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. + +"Mill workers," said the agent, making change. + +"What are they after?" + +"Wanta get to the 10.10 train." + +"And the guards are stopping them?" + +"You can use your eyes, cantcha?" + +Using his eyes, Banneker considered the position. "Are those fellows on +railroad property?" + +"What is it to you whether they are or ain't?" + +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." + +"I'd see that they got their train, if this was my station," asserted +Banneker. + +"Yes, you would! With that gang of strong-arms against you." + +"Chase 'em," advised Banneker simply. "They've got no right keeping your +passengers off your trains." + +"Chase 'em, ay? You'd do it, I suppose." + +"I would." + +"How?" + +"You've got a gun, haven't you?" + +"Maybe you think those guys haven't got guns, too." + +"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_'d have +been through so far as the Atkinson and St. Philip goes." + +"This railroad's different. I'd be through if I butted in on this mill +row." + +"How's that?" + +"Well, for one thing, old Vanney, who's the real boss here, is a +director of the road." + +"So _that_'s it!" Banneker digested this information. "Why are the women +so anxious to get away?" + +"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'?" + +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. + +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. + +"Well, what have you found, my boy?" the financier began. + +"A good many things that ought to be changed," answered Banneker +bluntly. + +"Quite probably. No institution is perfect." + +"The mills are pretty rotten. You pay your people too little--" + +"Where do you get that idea?" + +"From the way they live." + +"My dear boy; if we paid them twice as much, they'd live the same way. +The surplus would go to the saloons." + +"Then why not wipe out the saloons?" + +"I am not the Common Council of Sippiac," returned Mr. Vanney dryly. + +"Aren't you?" retorted Banneker even more dryly. + +The other frowned. "What else?" + +"Well; the housing. You own a good many of the tenements, don't you?" + +"The company owns some." + +"They're filthy holes." + +"They are what the tenants make them." + +"The tenants didn't build them with lightless hallways, did they?" + +"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. + +"I've been trying to find out what is wrong with Sippiac. I thought you +wanted facts." + +"Precisely. Facts. Not sentimental gushings." + +"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." + +"And what did you do?" + +"I don't know exactly how much. But I hope enough to land him in the +hospital. They pulled me off too soon." + +"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?" + +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." + +"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." + +"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." + +The magnate looked at him with contemptuous amusement. "No newspaper of +decent standing prints that kind of socialistic stuff, my young friend." + +"Why not?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +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: + +"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." + +"Do you? Then I'll tell them beforehand." + +Mr. Vanney privately reflected that there was no need of this: _he_ +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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." + +To which the other replied sadly that Banneker had in some manner +acquired a false and distorted view of industrial relations. + +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? + +"We're as fair and careful with our employees as any of our +competitors." + +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. + +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! + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +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 +_esprit de corps_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +"Mr. Banneker." An office boy was at his elbow. "Mr. Greenough wants +you." + +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. + +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. + +"Good! Good!" interpolated that blandly approving gentleman from time to +time in the course of the narrative. "Write it, Mr. Banneker! write it." + +"How much shall I write?" + +"Just what is necessary to tell the news." + +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. + +Greenough showed the paragraph (which failed to appear at all in the +overcrowded paper of next morning) to Mr. Gordon. + +"The new man doesn't start well," he remarked. "Too little imaginative +interest." + +"Isn't it knowledge rather than lack of interest?" suggested the +managing editor. + +"It may come to the same thing. If he knows too much to get really +interested, he'll be a dull reporter." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +He went to Mr. Gordon about it. The managing editor was the kind of man +with whom it is easy to talk straight talk. + +"What's the matter with me?" asked Banneker. + +Mr. Gordon played a thoughtful tattoo upon his fleshy knuckles with the +letter-opener. "Nothing. Aren't you satisfied?" + +"No. Are you?" + +"You've had your raise, and fairly early. Unless you had been worth it, +you wouldn't have had it." + +"Am I doing what you expected of me?" + +"Not exactly. But you're developing into a sure, reliable reporter." + +"A routine man," commented Banneker. + +"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. + +"I'd rather run a trolley car. There's more life in it." + +"Do you _see_ life, in your work, Mr. Banneker?" + +"See it? I feel it. Sometimes I think it's going to flatten me out like +a steam-roller." + +"Then why not write it?" + +"It isn't news: not what I see." + +"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." + +"Like a Bible." + +"Not to good purpose, then. What do you think of Tommy Burt's stuff?" + +"It's funny; some of it. But I couldn't do it to save my job." + +"Nobody can do it but Burt, himself. Possibly you could learn something +from it, though." + +"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." + +"The cynicism of twenty-eight," smiled the tolerant Mr. Gordon. "Don't +let yourself be inoculated." + +"Mr. Gordon," said Banneker doggedly; "I'm not doing the kind of work I +expected to do here." + +"You can hardly expect the star jobs until you've made yourself a star +man." + +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." + +"If you quit, what would you do?" + +"I haven't a notion," replied the other with an indifference which +testified to a superb, instinctive self-confidence. "Something." + +"Do it here. I think you'll come along all right." + +"But what's wrong with me?" persisted Banneker. + +"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." + +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. + +Banneker was deeply discouraged. He wanted to resign. + +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. + +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: + +"You've broken through your shell at last." + +"Did you like it?" asked Banneker. + +"Like it! My God, if I could write like that! But what's the use! Never +in the world." + +"Oh, that's nonsense," returned Banneker, pleased. "Of course you can. +But what's the rest of your 'if'?" + +"I wouldn't be wasting my time here. The magazines for me." + +"Is that better?" + +"Depends on what you're after. For a man who wants to write, it's +better, of course." + +"Why?" + +"Gives him a larger audience. No newspaper story is remembered overnight +except by newspaper men. And they don't matter." + +"Why don't they matter?" Banneker was surprised again, this time rather +disagreeably. + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Can't you keep on making it?" asked Banneker. + +"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." + +"What about the editing jobs?" + +"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." + +"There are more editorial writers." + +"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. + +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?" + +"More or less? To what extent?" countered the expert. + +"I haven't figured that out, yet." + +"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." + +"You haven't quit." + +"Perhaps I'm not honest enough or perhaps I'm too cowardly," retorted +the gloomy Burt. + +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. + +"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?" + +"I don't write politics. That's a specialty." + +"Who does?" + +"'Parson' Gale." + +"Does he believe in everything The Ledger stands for?" + +"Certainly. In office hours. For and in consideration of one hundred and +twenty-five dollars weekly, duly and regularly paid." + +"Outside of office hours, then." + +"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." + +"Out West we'd call that kind of fellow a yellow pup." + +"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." + +"Then I suppose the answer is that a man ought to work only on a +newspaper in whose policies he believes." + +"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." + +"Does he write anti-labor editorials?" asked the bewildered Banneker. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"How do you figure it out for yourself, then?" + +"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 _has_ 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." + +"If that's the way to keep out of embarrassing decisions, I'd like to +become a specialist myself." + +"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." + +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 _that_!" + +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: + +... I know so little of journalism, but there are things about it that I +distrust instinctively. Do you remember what that wrangler from the _Jon +Cal_ 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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +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. + +"Whaddya know about the latest?" he flung forth upon the coffee-scented +air. + +"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. + +"Since when have you been taking in disguised millionaires, Mrs. +Brashear?" + +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. + +"I was in Sherry's restaurant last night," said the offhand Wickert. + +"I didn't read about any fire there," said the jocose Hainer, pointing +his sally with a wink at Lambert, the art-student. + +Wickert ignored the gibe. Such was the greatness of his tidings that he +could afford to. + +"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." + +"Been promoted to be messenger, ay?" put in Mr. Hainer, chuckling. + +"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 _say_ 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!" + +"Having his dinner there?" asked the incredulous but fascinated Mrs. +Brashear. + +"Like he owned the place. Table to himself, against the wall. Waiter +fussin' over him like he loved him. And dressed! Oh, Gee!" + +"Did you speak to him?" asked Lambert. + +"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." + +"Didn't he seem surprised to see you there?" asked Hainer. + +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 _he_, have on _me_, and all the time I +was sizing him up. I'm telling you, he looked like he'd grown up in +Sherry's." + +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. + +Did Banneker eat there every night? + +Oh, no! He wasn't up to that much of a strain on his finances. + +But the waiters seemed to know him, as if he was one of the regulars. + +In a sense he was. Every Monday he dined there. Monday was his day off. + +Well, Mr. Wickert (awed and groping) _would_ be damned! All alone? + +Banneker, smiling, admitted the solitude. He rather liked dining alone. + +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 _his_ 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? + +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. + +Did Mr. Banneker (Wickert had by this time attained the "Mr." stage) +always follow up his dinner at Sherry's with a theater? + +Usually, if there were an opening. If not he went to the opera or a +concert. + +For his part, Wickert liked a little more spice in life. Still, every +feller to his tastes. And Mr. Banneker was sure dressed for the part. +Say--if he didn't mind--who made that full-dress suit? + +No; of course he didn't mind. Mertoun made it. + +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 _pro rata_ 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. + +Nobody called Mr. Wickert a goat. But Mr. Hainer sniffed and said: + +"And him a twenty-five-dollar-a-week reporter!" + +"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: + +"I am sure that Mr. Banneker would not be out of place in any company." + +"Maybe not," answered the cynical Lambert. "But where does he get it? I +ask you!" + +"Wherever he gets it, no gentleman could be more forehanded in his +obligations," declared Mrs. Brashear. + +"But what's he want to blow it for in a shirty place like Sherry's?" +marveled young Wickert. + +"Wyncha ask him?" brutally demanded Hainer. + +Wickert examined his mind hastily, and was fain to admit inwardly that +he had wanted to ask him, but somehow felt "skittish" about it. +Outwardly he retorted, being displeased at his own weakness, "Ask him +yourself." + +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. + +Some of the youngsters of The Ledger said that he was climbing. + +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. + +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 _mise-en-scene_. 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. + +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. + +"What have you been doing with yourself?" he asked, shaking hands. +"Haven't seen you for months." + +"Working," replied Banneker. "Sit down and have a cocktail. Two, Jules," +he added to the attentive waiter. + +"I guess they can spare me for five minutes," agreed Cressey, glancing +back at his forsaken place. "This isn't what you call work, though, is +it?" + +"Hardly. This is my day off." + +"Oh! And how goes the job?" + +"Well enough." + +"I'd think so," commented the other, taking in the general effect of +Banneker's easy habituation to the standards of the restaurant. "You +don't own this place, do you?" he added. + +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. + +"Not exactly," he returned lightly. "Do I give that unfortunate +impression?" + +"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?" + +"Monday evenings, only." + +"This is a good cocktail," observed Cressey, savoring it expertly. +"Better than they serve to me. And, say, Banneker, did Mertoun make you +that outfit?" + +"Yes." + +"Then I quit him," declared the gilded youth. + +"Why? Isn't it all right?" + +"All right! Dammit, it's a better job than ever I got out of him," +returned his companion indignantly. "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." + +"Any Monday," answered Banneker. + +Cressey returned to his waiting potage, and was immediately bombarded +with queries, mainly from the girl on his left. + +"Who's the wonderful-looking foreigner?" + +"He isn't a foreigner. At least not very much." + +"He looks like a North Italian princeling I used to know," said one of +the women. "One of that warm-complexioned out-of-door type, that +preserves the Roman mould. Isn't he an Italian?" + +"He's an American. I ran across him out in the desert country." + +"Hence that burned-in brown. What was he doing out there?" + +Cressey hesitated. 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." + +"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." + +"He's a beauty," said Cressey's left-hand neighbor. + +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. + +"In the West, Bertie?" she inquired of Cressey. "You were in that big +wreck there, weren't you?" + +"Devil of a wreck," said Cressey uneasily. You never could tell what +Esther might know or might not say. + +"Ask him over here," directed that young lady blandly, "for coffee and +liqueurs." + +"Oh, I say!" protested one of the men. "Nobody knows anything about +him--" + +"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." + +Instantly there was a chorus of demand for him. + +"All right, I'll try," yielded Cressey, rising. + +"Put him next to me," directed Miss Forbes. + +The emissary visited Banneker's table, was observed to be in brief +colloquy with him, and returned, alone. + +"Wouldn't he come?" interrogated the chorus. + +"He's awfully sorry, but he says he isn't fit for decent human +associations." + +"More and more interesting!"--"Why?"--"What awful thing has he been +doing?" + +"Eating onions," answered Cressey. "Raw." + +"I don't believe it," cried the indignant Miss Forbes. "One doesn't eat +raw onions at Sherry's. It's a subterfuge." + +"Very likely." + +"If I went over there myself, who'll bet a dozen silk stockings that I +can't--" + +"Come off it, Ess," protested her brother-in-law across the table. +"That's too high a jump, even for you." + +She let herself be dissuaded, but her dovelike eyes were vagrant during +the rest of the dinner. + +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. + +"You're Mr. Banneker, aren't you?" + +"Yes." + +"I'm Esther Forbes, and I think I've heard a great deal about you." + +"It doesn't seem probable," he replied gravely. + +"From a cousin of mine," pursued the girl. "She was Io Welland. Haven't +I?" + +A shock went through Banneker at the mention of the name. But he +steadied himself to say: "I don't think so." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +The lion did not bite her head off. He did not even roar. He merely +said, "Yes." + +"In a railroad wreck or something of that sort?" + +"Something of that sort." + +"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." + +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." + +The snub left Miss Forbes unembarrassed. + +"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?" + +"My ranch? I wasn't on a ranch." + +"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?" + +"I sat right on my job as station-agent at Manzanita and made up lists +of the killed and injured," answered Banneker dryly. + +"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?" + +"I was." + +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?" + +"A reporter on The Ledger." + +"Really!" This seemed to astonish her even more than the previous +information. "What are you reporting here?" + +"I'm off duty to-night." + +"I see. Could you get off duty some afternoon and come to tea, if I'll +promise to have Io there to meet you?" + +"Your party seems to be making signals of distress, Miss Forbes." + +"That's the normal attitude of my friends and family toward me. You'll +come, won't you, Mr. Banneker?" + +"Thank you: but reporting keeps one rather too busy for amusement." + +"You won't come," she murmured, aggrieved. "Then it _is_ true about you +and Io." + +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." + +"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." + +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. + +"But he's Io's passion-in-the-desert right enough," said the irreverent +Miss Forbes. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +"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. + +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: + +"I hear you've got a sucking genius at your shop." + +"If you mean Banneker, he's weaned," replied the assistant city editor +of The Ledger. "He goes on space next week." + +"Does he, though! Quick work, eh?" + +"A record for the office. He's been on the staff less than a year." + +"Is he really such a wonder?" asked Glidden of The Monitor. + +Three or four Ledger men answered at once, citing various stories which +had stirred the interest of Park Row. + +"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 _esprit de corps_. "I've seen bigger rockets than +him come down in the ash-heap." + +"He won't," prophesied Tommy Burt, The Ledger's humorous specialist. +"He'll go up and stay up. High! He's got the stuff." + +"They say," observed Fowler, the star man of The Patriot, "he covers his +assignment in taxicabs." + +"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. + +"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." + +"I've never seen him around," remarked Glidden. "What does he do with +himself besides work?" + +"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." + +"It doesn't get into his copy, then," asserted "Parson" Gale, political +expert for The Ledger. + +"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." + +"Must be rich," surmised Fowler. "Taxis for assignments and Fifth-Avenue +raiment sound like real money." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"As how?" inquired Glidden. + +"By handing him a nawsty one out of the assignment book, just to show +him where his hat fits too tight." + +"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." + +"Or the job of asking an indignant millionaire papa why his pet daughter +ran away with the second footman and where." + +"Or interviewing old frozen-faced Willis Enderby on his political +intentions, honorable or dishonorable." + +"If I know Banneker," said Mallory, "he's game. He'll take what's handed +him and put it over." + +"Once, maybe," contributed Tommy Burt. "Twice, perhaps. But I wouldn't +want to crowd too much on him." + +"Greenough won't. He's wise in the ways of marvelous and unlicked cubs," +said Decker. + +"Why? What do you think Banneker would do?" asked Mallory curiously, +addressing Burt. + +"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." + +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. + +"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--" + +"Shut up, Tommy," interrupted Edmonds. He resumed his pipe, gave it two +anxious puffs, and, satisfied of its continued vitality, said: + +"Banneker, uh? Resign, uh? You think he would?" + +"I think so." + +"Does _he_ think so?" + +"That's my belief." + +"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." + +"Marked for it?" murmured Glidden. + +"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." + +"Do you know him, Pop?" inquired McHale. + +"Never saw him. Don't have to. I've read his stuff." + +"And you see it there?" + +"Plain as Brooklyn Bridge. He'll eat mud like the rest of us." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"Why don't you tell 'em?" asked Mallory lazily. + +"I did, once. I told the President of the United Manufacturers' +Association what I really thought of their attitude toward labor." + +"With what result?" + +"He ordered The Courier to fire me." + +"You're still there." + +"Yes. But he isn't. I went after him on his record." + +"All of which doesn't sound much like mud-eating, Pop." + +"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." + +"I'll bet he won't," said Tommy Burt. + +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." + +"I will," said Edmonds. + +On his arrival Banneker was introduced to those of the men whom he did +not know, and seated next to Edmonds. + +"We've been talking about you, young fellow," said the veteran. + +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. + +"We were discussing how much dirt you'd eat to hold your job on The +Ledger." + +"The Ledger doesn't ask its men to eat dirt, Edmonds," put in Mallory +sharply. + +"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." + +"It's ugly," admitted the other, "but you have to answer it. Oh, not to +me!" he added, smiling. "To yourself." + +"It hasn't come my way yet." + +"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." + +"If they're too squeamish, they'd never make real newspaper men," +pronounced McHale. "You can't be too good for your business." + +"Just so," said Tommy Burt acidly, "but your business can be too bad for +you." + +"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. + +"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?" + +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." + +"The public," murmured Edmonds. "Swill-eaters." + +"All right! Then give 'em the kind of swill they want," cried McHale. + +Edmonds so manipulated his little pipe that it pointed directly at +Banneker. "Would you?" he asked. + +"Would I what?" + +"Give 'em the kind of swill they want? You seem to like to keep your +hands clean." + +"Aren't you asking me your original question in another form?" smiled +the young man. + +"You objected to it before." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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!" + +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. + +"What will it get a man?" asked Banneker, setting down his coffee-cup. + +"This game?" queried the other. + +"Yes." + +"'What shall it profit a man,'" quoted the veteran ruminatively. "You +know the rest." + +"No," returned Banneker decidedly. "That won't do. These fellows here +haven't sold their souls." + +"Or lost 'em. Maybe not," admitted the elder. "Though I wouldn't gamble +strong on some of 'em. But they've lost something." + +"Well, what is it? That's what I'm trying to get at." + +"Independence. They're merged in the paper they write for." + +"Every man's got to subordinate himself to his business, if he's to do +justice to it and himself, hasn't he?" + +"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." + +"Not in reporting, though." + +"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." + +"And you think it affects them?" + +"How can it help? There's a slow poison in writing one way when you +believe another." + +"And that's part of the dirt-eating?" + +"Well, yes. Not so obvious as some of the other kinds. Those hurt your +pride, mostly. This kind hurts your self-respect." + +"But where does it get you, all this business?" asked Banneker reverting +to his first query. + +"I'm fifty-two years old," replied Edmonds quietly. + +Banneker stared. "Oh, I see!" he said presently. "And you're considered +a success. Of course you _are_ a success." + +"On Park Row. Would you like to be me? At fifty-two?" + +"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?" + +"Perhaps I could answer that if I knew where I started for or where I've +got to." + +"Put it that you've got what you were after, then." + +"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." + +"That's something. To have a public that will follow you even part +way--" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Tell me something. Why do none of the men, talking among themselves, +ever refer to themselves as reporters. It's always 'newspaper men.'" + +Edmonds shot a swift glance at him. "What do you think?" + +"I think," he decided slowly, "it's because there is a sort of stigma +attached to reporting." + +"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.'" + +"Whose fault is it?" + +"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." + +"Aren't the newspapers to blame, in the kind of stuff they print?" + +"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." + +"The Ledger doesn't go in for that sort of thing." + +"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. + +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 _demi-tasse_, in apparent detachment +from the outside world. + +"His name is Marrineal," replied the veteran. "He dines here +occasionally alone. Don't know what he does." + +"He's been listening in." + +"Curious thing; he often does." + +As they parted at the door, Edmonds said paternally: + +"Remember, young fellow, a Park Row reputation is written on glass with +a wet finger. It doesn't last during the writing." + +"And only dims the glass," said Banneker reflectively. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"What's the matter, Mr. Banneker?" asked a voice. + +"God!" muttered Banneker. "I wish I were back on the desert." + +"You want a drink," prescribed his volunteer prop. + +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. + +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. + +"The desert," echoed Smith in his quiet, well-bred voice. "Isn't it +pretty hot, there, too?" + +"It's open," said Banneker. "I'm smothering here." + +"You look frazzled out, if you don't mind my saying so." + +"I feel frazzled out; that's what I mind." + +"Suppose you come out with me to-night as soon as I report to the desk," +suggested the other. + +Banneker, refreshed by the tingling drink, looked down at him in +surprise. "Where?" he asked. + +"I've got a little boat out here in the East River." + +"A boat? Lord, that sounds good!" sighed Banneker. + +"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." + +"But I'm newer at it than you are." + +"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." + +"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. + +Smith seemed taken aback at this. "Just as you like," he assented. +"Though I don't quite know--We'll talk of that later." + +While Banneker was packing in his room, Smith, seated on the +window-sill, remarked: + +"I ought to tell you that we have to go through a bad district to get +there." + +"The Tunnel Gang?" asked Banneker, wise in the plague spots of the city. + +"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." + +Banneker made an unobtrusive addition to his packing. "They'll have to +move fast to catch me," he observed. + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +"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?" + +"My father does. He's been called back West." + +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. + +"We'll be in by noon," was Smith's greeting as they met on the +companionway for a swim. + +"What do you do it for?" asked Banneker, seated at the breakfast table, +with an appetite such as he had not known for weeks. + +"Do what?" + +"Two men's work at twenty-five per for The Ledger?" + +"Training." + +"Are you going to stick to the business?" + +"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." + +"Do you like it?" + +"Not particularly. But I'm going through with it." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Hear anything of a shoot-fest up in the Bad Lands last night?" he +asked. + +"Not yet," replied Mr. Greenough. "They're getting to be everyday +occurrences up there. Is it on the police slips, Mr. Mallory?" + +"No. Nothing in that line," answered the assistant, looking over his +assortment. + +"Police are probably suppressing it," opined Burt. + +"Have you got the story?" queried Mr. Greenough. + +"In outline. It isn't really my story." + +"Whose is it, then?" + +"That's part of it." Tommy Burt leaned against Mallory's desk and +appeared to be revolving some delectable thought in his mind. + +"Tommy," said Mallory, "they didn't open that committee meeting you've +been attending with a corkscrew, did they?" + +"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, _incomunicado_." + +Throughout the narrative, Mr. Greenough had thrown in little, purring +interjections of "Good! Good!"--"Yes."--"Ah! good!" At the conclusion +Mallory exclaimed! + +"Moses! That is a story! You say it isn't yours? Why not?" + +"Because it's Banneker's." + +"Why?" + +"He's the guest with the gun." + +Mallory jumped in his chair. "Banneker!" he exclaimed. "Oh, hell!" he +added disconsolately. + +"Takes the shine out of the story, doesn't it?" observed Burt with a +malicious smile. + +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. + +"What was Banneker doing down there?" queried Mr. Greenough. + +"Visiting on a yacht." + +"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?" + +Again the spiteful little smile appealed on Burt's lips as he dashed the +rising hope. "Fentriss Smith's." + +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. + +"You say that Mr. Banneker is in the police station?" asked the city +editor. + +"Or at headquarters. They're probably working the third degree on him." + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +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 _bete noire_, 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. + +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." + +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?" + +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. + +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. + +"The stinking liars!" said Andreas. + +"That settles it," declared Mr. Gordon. "We'll give the facts plainly +and without sensationalism; but all the facts." + +"Including Mr. Banneker's connection here?" inquired Mr. Greenough. + +"Certainly." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"So we understand, Mr. Banneker," said Mr. Greenough, his placid +features for once enlivened. "That was a good job you did. I +congratulate you." + +"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." + +"Very likely: very likely. You've handled a gun before." + +"Only in practice." + +"Ever shot anybody before?" + +"No, sir." + +"How does it feel?" inquired the city editor, turning his pale eyes on +the other and fussing nervously with his fingers. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +"You are not doing the story, Mr. Banneker. Tommy Burt is." + +"I'm not writing it? Not any of it?" + +"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." + +"A Patriot reporter has already. I gave him a statement." + +Mr. Greenough frowned. "It would have been as well to have waited. +However." + +"Oh, Banneker," put in Mallory, "Judge Enderby wants you to call at his +office." + +"Who's Judge Enderby?" + +"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." + +"Why?" + +"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." + +"Is there any reason why I should go chasing around to see him?" + +"That's as you choose. He doesn't see reporters often. Perhaps it would +be as well." + +"His outfit are after the police," explained Mallory. "That's what he +wants you for. It's part of their political game. Always politics." + +"Well, he can wait until to-morrow, I suppose," remarked Banneker +indifferently. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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." + +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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"I think, Mr. Greenough, that we'll have to give the news," answered the +managing editor austerely. "Where is Banneker now?" + +"With Judge Enderby, I believe. In case of an investigation he won't be +much use to us until it's over." + +"Can't be helped," returned Mr. Gordon serenely. "We'll stand by our +man." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"Have you finished?" asked Judge Enderby. + +"No." + +"You do not find it interesting?" + +"Less interesting than your idea in giving it to me." + +"What do you conceive that to have been?" + +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." + +"I think so, too. Mr. Banneker, are you honest?" + +"Where I came from, that would be regarded as a trouble-hunter's +question." + +"I ask you to regard it as important and take it without offense." + +"I don't know about that," returned Banneker gravely. "We'll see. +Honest, you say. Are you?" + +"Yes." + +"Then why do you begin by doubting the honesty of a stranger against +whom you know nothing?" + +"Legal habit, I dare say. Fortified, in this case, by your association +with The Ledger." + +"You haven't a high opinion of my paper?" + +"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." + +"I thought that was the specialty of lawyers." + +Judge Enderby accepted the touch with a smile. + +"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." + +"I do. Then you don't consider The Ledger honest." + +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." + +"Do you mind explaining that to me quite simply, so that I shall be sure +to understand it?" invited Banneker. + +"You have read the article about your exploit?" + +"Yes." + +"Is that honest?" + +"It is as accurate a job as I've ever known done." + +"Granted. Is it honest?" + +"I don't know," answered the other after a pause. "I intend to find +out." + +"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!" + +"Yes; I gave them the same interview. It may have been crowded out--" + +"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." + +"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. + +"Well?" prompted the other. + +"I'll go through to the finish with your committee." + +"You're as good as pledged," retorted the lawyer. "I shall expect to +hear from you." + +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?" + +Burt assumed an air of touching innocence. "The story had to be handled +with great care," he explained blandly. + +"Come off, Tommy. Didn't you write the police part?" + +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." + +"Is _that_ so? And who made the suggestion?" + +"An all-wise city desk." + +"Thank you. Tommy." + +"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!" + +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. + +"Doubtless," observed the managing editor. "It is his specialty. But +without your evidence they can't go far." + +"They can have my evidence." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"They will arrange to put me on the stand in the mornings." + +"Further, any connection between a Ledger man and the Enderby Committee +is undesirable and injudicious." + +"I'm sorry," answered Banneker simply. "I've said I'd go through with +it." + +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. + +Banneker leaned forward as if for a confidential communication, as he +lapsed into a gross Westernism: + +"Mr. Gordon, _I_ am paying for this round of drinks." + +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. + +Banneker, after asking whether there was anything more, and receiving a +displeased shake of the head, went away. + +"Now," said he to the waiting Tommy Burt, "they'll probably fire me." + +"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." + +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. + +Where had he seen that fine and still face before? + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +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. + +"I'm sure we all admire what you did, Mr. Banneker," she began, in +evident trepidation. + +The subject of this eulogy murmured something deprecatory. + +"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. + +"What's the matter, Mrs. Brashear? What's troubling you?" + +"If you could make it convenient," said she tremulously, "when your +month is up. I shouldn't think of asking you before." + +"Are you giving me notice?" he inquired in amazement. + +"If you don't mind, please. The notoriety, the--the--your being +arrested. You were arrested, weren't you?" + +"Oh, yes. But the coroner's jury cleared--" + +"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." + +"I'll go next week," said the evicted one, divided between amusement and +annoyance, and retired to escape another outburst of grief. + +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. + +"Mrs. Brashear tells me that you are leaving, Mr. Banneker." + +"Did she tell you why? That she has fired me out?" + +"No. She didn't." + +Banneker, a little surprised and touched at the landlady's reticence, +explained. + +"Ah, well," commented Miss Westlake, "you would soon have outgrown us in +any case." + +"I'm not so sure. Where one lives doesn't so much matter. And I'm a +creature of habit." + +"I think that you are going to be a very big man, Mr. Banneker." + +"Do you?" He smiled down at her. "Now, why?" + +She did not answer his smile. "You've got power," she replied. "And you +have mastered your medium--or gone far toward it." + +"I'm grateful for your good opinion," he began courteously; but she +broke in on him, shaking her head. + +"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." + +"You're the last person in the world to do that, I should think," he +replied smilingly. + +"But I have. You may remember my asking you once when those little +sketches that I retyped so often were to be published." + +"Yes. I never did anything with them." + +"I did. I showed them to Violet Thornborough. She is an old friend." + +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. + +"Your goose," he pronounced, "is not fledged; but there may be a fringe +of swan feathers. Bring him to see me." + +"I haven't the faintest idea of who, what, or where he is," answered the +insistent critic. + +"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. + +Having related the episode to its subject, Miss Westlake said +diffidently: "Do you think it was inexcusably impertinent of me?" + +"No. I think it was very kind." + +"Then you'll go to see Mr. Gaines?" + +"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." + +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. + +Meantime there pressed the question of a home. Cressey ought to afford +help on that. He called the gilded youth on the telephone. + +"Hello, old fire-eater!" cried Cressey. "Some little hero, aren't you! +Bully work, my boy. I'm proud to know you.... What; quarters? Easiest +thing you know. I've got the very thing--just like a real-estate agent. +Let's see; this is your Monday at Sherry's, isn't it? All right. I'll +meet you there." + +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. + +"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." + +"Quite a raise from the five dollars a week I've been paying," smiled +Banneker. + +"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." + +"All of which doesn't increase my income," pointed out the other. + +"It will. Just wait. One way or another you'll capitalize that +reputation. That's the way New York is." + +"That isn't the way _I_ am, however. I'll capitalize my brains and +ability, if I've got 'em; not my gun-play." + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"Oh, you know Marrineal, do you?" asked Cressey in surprise. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"Who's the little beauty next him?" + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"She looks it," admitted Banneker. + +"At that, she's in a rather sporty lot. Do you know that chap three +seats to her left?" + +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." + +"That's Del Eyre," remarked Cressey casually, and appearing not to look +at Banneker. + +"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. + +"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." + +"Is she over there with them?" + +"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. + +"We're just having coffee," said Banneker. "Will you join us?" + +"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." + +"You owe me no thanks," returned Banneker good-humoredly. "What I did was +to save my own precious skin." + +"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." + +"You see!" remarked Cressey triumphantly as Masters went away. "I told +you you'd arrived." + +"Do you count a word of ordinary courtesy as so much?" inquired +Banneker, surprised and amused. + +"From Junior? I certainly do. No Masters ever does anything without +having figured out its exact meaning in advance." + +"And what does this mean?" asked the other, still unimpressed. + +"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." + +"I haven't the time," returned Banneker with honest indifference. He +sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Cressey," he said, "if I had a +newspaper of my own in New York, do you know what I'd do with it?" + +"Make money." + +"I hope so. But whether I did or not, I'd set out to puncture that +bubble of the Masters power and supremacy. It isn't right for any man to +have that power just through money. It isn't American." + +"The old man would smash your paper in six months." + +"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." + +"If you lose your job I'll get you a better one on Wall Street +to-morrow." + +"On the strength of Poultney Masters, Jr., shaking hands with me, I +suppose." + +"Practically. It may not get into your newspapers, but the Street will +know all about it to-morrow." + +"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." + +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. + +"Come behind at the finish?" said a voice. + +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. + +"Yes; I'd like to," he answered. + +"Little Betty spotted you and has been demanding that the management +bring you back for inspection." + +"The play is a big success, isn't it?" + +"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 +_ingenue_. However, she's got brains, which is the next best thing in +the theatrical game to marriage with the manager--or near-marriage." + +Banneker, considering Gurney's crow-footed and tired leer, decided that +he did not like the critic much. + +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. + +"You're coming to supper with us later," she called. + +"Am I?" said Banneker. + +"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. + +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: + +"You air Monsieur Ban-kerr, who shoot, n'est-ce-pas?" she inquired. + +"My name is Banneker," he replied. + +"Weel you be ver' good an' shoot sahmbody for me?" + +"With pleasure," he said, laughing; "if you'll plead for me with the +jury." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Oh, out West where I came from. I used to practice on the pine trees at +a little water-tank station called Manzanita". + +"Manzanita!" repeated the other. "By God!" He swore softly, and stared +at the other. + +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. + +"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?" + +"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. + +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 _corps intime_ 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. + +Late in the supper's course, there was a shifting of seats, and he was +landed next to the star. + +"I suppose you're bored stiff with talking about the shooting," she +said, at once. + +"I am, rather. Wouldn't you be?" + +"I? Publicity is the breath of life to us," she laughed. "You deal in +it, so you don't care for it." + +"That's rather shrewd in you. I'm not sure that the logic is sound." + +"Anyway, I'm not going to bore you with your fame. But I want you to do +something for me." + +"It is done," he said solemnly. + +"How prettily you pay compliments! There is to be a police +investigation, isn't there?" + +"Probably." + +"Could you get me in?" + +"Yes, indeed!" + +"Then I want to come when you're on the stand." + +"Great goodness! Why?" + +"Why, if you want a reason," she answered mischievously, "say that I +want to bring good luck to your _premiere_, as you brought it to mine." + +"I'll probably make a sorry showing. Perhaps you would give me some +training." + +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. + +"Give me The Ledger," demanded Betty. "I want to see what Gurney says." + +"Something pleasant surely," said Banneker. "He told me that the play +was an assured success." + +As she read, Betty's vivacious face sparkled. Presently her expression +changed. She uttered a little cry of disgust and rage. + +"What's the matter?" inquired the author. + +"Gurney is up to his smartnesses again," she replied. "Listen. Isn't +this enraging!" She read: + +"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 _chef +d'oeuvre_ 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. + +"I think it's mean and shameful!" proclaimed the reader in generous +rage. + +"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. + +"I don't care if he does!" cried Betty. "He's a pig!" + +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." + +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. + +"What's your view of that, Mr. Banneker?" + +"Mine?" said Banneker promptly. "I think it's crooked. What's yours?" + +"Still quick on the trigger," murmured the other, but did not answer the +return query. + +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?" + +Out of the welter of angry voices came Betty Raleigh's clear speech, +addressed to Banneker. + +"I'm sorry, Mr. Banneker; I'd forgotten that The Ledger is your paper." + +"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. + +"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. + +Laurence nodded. He looked tired and a little bored, Banneker thought. + +"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?" + +"They ought to bar him from the theater," declared one of the women in +the cast. + +"And what do you think of _that_?" inquired Marrineal, still addressing +Banneker. + +Banneker laughed. "Admit only those who wear the bright and burnished +badge of the Booster," he said. "Is that the idea?" + +"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. + +"Honest players don't object to honest criticism, then," she amended. +"It's the unfairness that hurts." + +"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--" + +"Of course he could honestly dislike it," put in the playwright hastily. +"It isn't that." + +"It's the mean, slurring way he treated it," said the star "Mr. +Banneker, just what did he say to you about it?" + +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. + +"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." + +"On behalf of the profession of journalism, we thank you, Bezdek," said +one of the critics. + +"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." + +"That is perhaps just as well," said Banneker quite quietly, "if he +means that The Ledger is not straight." + +"I didn't say The Ledger. I said Gurney. He's crooked as a corkscrew's +hole." + +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?" + +"Naw!" snorted Bezdek. + +"That he's influenced by favoritism, then?" + +"I didn't say so, did I?" + +"You've said either too little or too much." + +"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." + +"He'd rather be funny than fair," said Miss Raleigh bluntly. + +"The curse of dramatic criticism," murmured a magazine representative. + +"Rotten," said Bezdek doggedly. "Crooked. Tryin' to be funny at other +folks' expense. _I_'ll give his tail a twist!" By which he meant Mr. +Gurney's printed words. + +"Apropos of the high cult of honesty," remarked Banneker. + +"The curse of all journalism," put in Laurence. "The temptation to be +effective at the expense of honesty." + +"And what do you think of _that_?" inquired the cheerful Marrineal, +still directing his query to Banneker. + +"I think it's rather a large order. Why do you keep asking my opinion?" + +"Because I suspect that you still bring a fresh mind to bear on these +matters." + +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." + +"I don't mind at all," he returned gravely: "unless it's true." + +"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 +matinee day." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Where did you get the idea for these, Mr. Banneker?" he asked. + +"I don't know. It came to me." + +"Would you care to sign them?" + +"Sign them?" repeated the reporter in surprise, for this was a +distinction afforded to only a choice few on the conservative Ledger. + +"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?" + +"I'd like to sign them 'Eban,'" answered the other, after some thought. +"And thank you." + +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. + +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 _esprit +de corps_ which was natural to the office. Tommy Burt was all for +referring the matter to Mr. Gordon. + +"You mind your own business, Tommy," said Banneker placidly. "Our friend +the Joss will stick his foot into a gopher hole yet." + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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: + +"Do you remember practicing, that day, among the pines? I'm so proud! +Io." + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +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: + +"Mr. Greenough has left an assignment for you." + +"All right," said Banneker, stretching out his hand for the clipping or +slip. None was forthcoming. + +"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." + +"I've met Eyre." + +"That so? Ever met his wife?" + +"No," replied Banneker, in good faith. + +"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." + +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 _elite_ of New York and Philadelphia, between which it stood midway. + +"Then I'm to go and ask him," said Banneker slowly, "whether his sister +is suing for divorce?" + +"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." + +"I'm to ask her brother about that, too?" + +"We want the story," answered Mallory, almost petulantly. + +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. + +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. + +"Yes, my name is Densmore," he answered the visitor's accost. + +"I'm a reporter from The Ledger," explained Banneker. + +"A reporter?" Mr. Densmore frowned. "Reporters aren't allowed here, +except on match days. How did you get in?" + +"Nobody stopped me," answered the visitor in an expressionless tone. + +"It doesn't matter," said the other, "since you're here. What is it; the +international challenge?" + +"A rumor has come to us--There's a tip come in at the office--We +understood that there is--" Banneker pulled himself together and put the +direct question. "Is Mrs. Delavan Eyre bringing a divorce suit against +her husband?" + +For a time there was a measured silence. Mr. Densmore's heavy brows +seemed to jut outward and downward toward the questioner. + +"You came out here from New York to ask me that?" he said presently. + +"Yes." + +"Anything else?" + +"Yes. Who is named as co-respondent? And will there be a defense, or a +counter-suit?" + +"A counter-suit," repeated the man in the saddle quietly. "I wonder if +you realize what you're asking?" + +"I'm trying to get the news," said Banneker doggedly striving to hold to +an ideal which momentarily grew more sordid and tawdry. + +"And I wonder if you realize how you ought to be answered." + +Yes; Banneker realized, with a sick realization. But he was not going to +admit it. He kept silence. + +"If this polo mallet were a whip, now," observed Mr. Densmore +meditatively. "A dog-whip, for preference." + +Under the shameful threat Banneker's eyes lightened. Here at least was +something he could face like a man. His undermining nausea mitigated. + +"What then?" he inquired in tones as level as those of his opponent. + +"Why, then I'd put a mark on you. A reporter's mark." + +"I think not." + +"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." + +"It would be safer," allowed the other, with a smile that surprised the +athlete. + +"Safer?" he repeated. "I wasn't thinking of safety." + +"Think of it," advised the visitor; "for if you set your grooms on me, +they could perhaps throw me out. But as sure as they did I'd kill you +the next time we met." + +Densmore smiled. "You!" he said contemptuously. "Kill, eh? Did you ever +kill any one?" + +"Yes." + +Under their jet brows Densmore's eyes took on a peculiar look of +intensity. "A Ledger reporter," he murmured. "See here! Is your name +Banneker, by any chance?" + +"Yes." + +"You're the man who cleared out the wharf-gang." + +"Yes." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Then it's a rotten business," retorted the horseman. "Do you _have_ to +do this?" + +"Somebody has to get the news." + +"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 _damned_ 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. + +"What name did you say?" muttered Banneker, involuntarily. + +"Io. My foster-sister's nickname. Irene Welland, she was. You're a queer +sort of society reporter if you don't know that." + +"I'm not a society reporter." + +"But you know Mrs. Eyre?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Official duty." + +"That's all right. But it was more than that. I recall your name now." +Densmore's bearing had become that of a man to his equal. "I'll tell +you, let's go up to the clubhouse and have a drink, shan't we? D' you +mind just waiting here while I give this nag a little run to supple him +up?" + +He was off, leaving Banneker with brain awhirl. 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: + +"Are you going to play that pony?" + +The horseman looked mildly surprised. "After he's learned a bit more. +Shapes up well, don't you think?" + +"Speed him up to me and give him a sharp twist to the right, will you?" + +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. + +"Breaks a little there," he stated seriously. + +The horseman tried the turn again, throwing his weight over. This time +he did feel a slightly perceptible "give." "What's the remedy?" he +asked. + +"Build up the outer flange of the shoe. That may do it. But I shouldn't +trust him without a thorough test. A good pony'll always overplay his +safety a little in a close match." + +The implication of this expert view aroused Densmore's curiosity. +"You've played," he said. + +"No: I've never played. I've knocked the ball about a little." + +"Where?" + +"Out in Santa Barbara. With the stable-boys." + +So simply was it said that Densmore returned, quite as simply: "Were you +a stable-boy?" + +"No such luck, then. Just a kid, out of a job." + +Densmore dismounted, handed reins and mallet to the visitor and said, +"Try a shot or two." + +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. + +"Ridden range, haven't you?" inquired the poloist when the other came +in. + +"Quite a bit of it, in my time." + +"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." + +Banneker shook his head. "I'm here on business. I'm a reporter with a +story to get." + +"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." + +Banneker, gazing longingly at the bright turf of the field, accepted. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Heard Archie call him Banker, I think," answered one of the great man's +hangers-on. + +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. + +"Dick says the feller's a reporter," declared one of them, a middle-aged +man named Kirke. "Says he saw him tryin' to interview somebody on the +Street, one day." + +"Well, I don't believe it," announced an elderly member. "This chap of +Densmore's looks like a gentleman and dresses like one. I don't believe +he's a reporter. And he rides like a devil." + +"_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." + +"Oh, slush!" said another discourteously. "What is riding like a +gentleman?" + +Kirke reverted to the set argument of his type. "I'll betcha a hundred +he don't!" + +"Who's to settle such a bet?" + +"Leave it to Maitland," said somebody. + +"I'll leave it to Archie Densmore if you like," offered the bettor +belligerently. + +"Leave it to Mr. Masters," suggested Kirke. + +"Why not leave it to the horse?" + +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. + +"Are you the visitor we have been so frankly discussing?" + +"I assume so." + +"Isn't it rather unfortunate that you did not make your presence known +sooner?" + +"I hoped that I might have a chance to slip out unseen and save you +embarrassment." + +The other came forward at once with hand outstretched. "My name is +Forster," he said. "You're Mr. Banker, aren't you?" + +"Yes," said Banneker, shaking hands. For various reasons it did not seem +worth while to correct the slight error. + +"Look out! Here's the old man," said some one. + +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?" + +Forster introduced the two. "You've got the makings of a polo-man in +you," decreed the great man. "Where are you playing?" + +"I've never really played. Just practiced." + +"Then you ought to be with us. Where's Densmore? We'll put you up and +have you in by the next meeting." + +"A reporter in The Retreat!" protested Kirke who had proffered the bet. + +"Why not?" snapped old Poultney Masters. "Got any objections?" + +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. + +"I'm much obliged," said he. "But I couldn't join this club. Can't +afford it." + +"You can't afford not to. It's a chance not many young fellows from +nowhere get." + +"Perhaps you don't know what a reporter's earnings are, Mr. Masters." + +The rest of the group had drifted away, in obedience, Banneker +suspected, to some indication given by Masters which he had not +perceived. + +"You won't be a reporter long. Opportunities will open out for a young +fellow of your kind." + +"What sort of opportunities?" inquired Banneker curiously. + +"Wall Street, for example." + +"I don't think I'd like the game. Writing is my line. I'm going to stick +to it." + +"You're a fool," barked Masters. + +"That is a word I don't take from anybody," stated Banneker. + +"_You_ don't take? Who the--" The raucous snarl broke into laughter, as +the other leaned abruptly forward. "Banneker," he said, "have you got +_me_ covered?" + +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." + +"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." + +"I'll think it over," answered Banneker, as Densmore entered. + +"Come and see me at the office," invited Masters as he shambled pursily +away. + +Across the dining-table Densmore said to his guest: "So the Old Boy +wants to put you up here." + +"Yes." + +"That means a sure election." + +"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." + +"It is a rotten business, for sure!" said Densmore sympathetically. +"Couldn't you get on night work, so you could play afternoons?" + +"Play polo?" Banneker laughed. "My means would hardly support one pony." + +"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." + +The high lust of the game took and shook Banneker for a dim moment. Then +he recovered himself. "No. I couldn't do that." + +"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." + +"I'll think it over," said Banneker, as he had said to old Poultney +Masters. + +Not until after the dinner did Banneker remind his host of their +understanding. "You haven't forgotten that I'm here on business?" + +"No; I haven't. I'm going to answer your question for publication. Mrs. +Eyre has not the slightest intention of suing for divorce." + +"About the separation?" + +"No. No separation, either. Io is traveling with friends and will be +back in a few months." + +"That is authoritative?" + +"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." + +"That's quite enough." + +"So much for publication. What follows is private: just between you and +me." + +Banneker nodded. After a ruminative pause Densmore asked an abrupt +question. + +"You found my sister after the wreck, didn't you?" + +"Well; she found me." + +"Was she hurt?" + +"Yes." + +"Badly?" + +"I think not. There was some concussion of the brain, I suppose. She was +quite dazed." + +"Did you call a doctor?" + +"No. She wouldn't have one." + +"You know Miss Van Arsdale, don't you?" + +"She's the best friend I've got in the world," returned Banneker, so +impulsively that his interrogator looked at him curiously before +continuing: + +"Did you see Io at her house?" + +"Yes; frequently," replied Banneker, wondering to what this all tended, +but resolved to be as frank as was compatible with discretion. + +"How did she seem?" + +"She was as well off there as she could be anywhere." + +"Yes. But how did she seem? Mentally, I mean." + +"Oh, that! The dazed condition cleared up at once." + +"I wish I were sure that it had ever cleared up," muttered Densmore. + +"Why shouldn't you be sure?" + +"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--" + +"Have you suggested that to her?" asked Banneker as the other broke off +to ruminate mournfully. + +"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?" + +"Absolutely. If you want confirmation, why not write Miss Van Arsdale +yourself?" + +"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. + +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. + +At the office he reported "no story." Before going home he wrote a note +to the city desk. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +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. + +"Nothing in the Eyre story, Mr. Banneker!" + +"Not a thing." + +"You saw Mr. Densmore?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Would he talk?" + +"Yes; he made a statement." + +"It didn't appear in the paper." + +"There was nothing to it but unqualified denial." + +"I see; I see. That's all, Mr. Banneker.... Oh, by the way." + +Banneker, who had set out for his desk, turned back. + +"I had a note from you this morning." + +As this statement required no confirmation, Banneker gave it none. + +"Containing your resignation." + +"Conditional upon my being assigned to pry into society or private +scandals or rumors of them." + +"The Ledger does not recognize conditional resignation." + +"Very well." Banneker's smile was as sunny and untroubled as a baby's. + +"I suppose you appreciate that some one must cover this kind of news." + +"Yes. It will have to be some one else." + +The faintest, fleeting suspicion of a frown troubled the Brahminical +calm of Mr. Greenough's brow, only to pass into unwrinkled blandness. + +"Further, you will recognize that, for the protection of the paper, I +must have at call reporters ready to perform any emergency duty." + +"Perfectly," agreed Banneker. + +"Mr. Banneker," queried Mr. Greenough in a semi-purr, "are you too good +for your job?" + +"Certainly." + +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. + +"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." + +"A dull lot of newspapers we'd have if all reporters took that view," +muttered Mr. Greenough. + +"It strikes me that what you've just said is the severest kind of an +indictment of the whole business, then," retorted Banneker. + +"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--" + +"Nothing at all to do with it," interrupted the urbane reporter. "I've +always been this way. It was born in me." + +"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. + +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). + +"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." + +"Don't blame Greenough," said Banneker. "If you were on the desk you +wouldn't want reporters that wouldn't take orders." + +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? + +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. + +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. + +His first words to Banneker, after his greeting, were: "You are +exceedingly well tailored." + +"Does it matter?" asked Banneker, smiling. + +"I'm disappointed. I had read into your writing midnight toil and +respectable, if seedy, self-support." + +"After the best Grub Street tradition? Park Row has outlived that." + +"I know your tailor, but what's your college?" inquired this surprising +man. + +Banneker shook his head. + +"At least I was right in that. I surmised individual education. Who +taught you to think for yourself?" + +"My father." + +"It's an uncommon name. You're not a son of Christian Banneker, +perhaps?" + +"Yes. Did you know him?" + +"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?" + +"He tried to teach me to stand on my own feet and see with my own eyes +and think for myself." + +"Ah, yes! With one's own eyes. So much depends upon whither one turns +them. What have you seen in daily journalism?" + +"A chance. Possibly a great chance." + +"To think for yourself?" + +Banneker started, at this ready application of his words to the problem +which was already outlining itself by small, daily limnings in his mind. + +"To write for others what you think for yourself?" pursued the editor, +giving sharpness and definition to the outline. + +"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: _x_ = the breaking-point of +honesty. Your father was an absurdly honest man. Those of us who knew +him best honored him." + +"Are you doubting my honesty?" inquired Banneker, without resentment or +challenge. + +"Why, yes. Anybody's. But hopefully, you understand." + +"Or the honesty of the newspaper business?" + +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?" + +"Two stages of the same process, aren't they?" suggested Banneker. + +"Encouraging to think so. Yet labor in a fertilizing plant, though +perhaps essential, is hardly conducive to higher thinking. You like it?" + +"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." + +"Exactly. They simply disseminate it." + +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." + +"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?" + +"A little." + +"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?" + +"Approximately." + +"How approximately?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"But it wasn't fiction," denied Banneker eagerly. + +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?" + +"I have." + +"When?" + +"Before I got your note." + +"It never reached me." + +"It never reached anybody. It's in my desk, ripening." + +"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." + +"I'll mail it to you. Before I go, would you mind telling me more +definitely why you advise me against the newspaper business?" + +"I advise? I never advise as to questions of morals or ethics. I have +too much concern with keeping my own straight." + +"Then it _is_ a question of morals?" + +"Or ethics. I think so. For example, have you tried your hand at +editorials?" + +"Yes." + +"Successfully?" + +"As far as I've gone." + +"Then you are in accord with the editorial policy of The Ledger?" + +"Not in everything." + +"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?" + +"No; I don't believe that, of course." + +"I do, as it happens. But I fail to see how Christian Banneker's son and +_eleve_ could. Yet you write editorials for The Ledger." + +"Not on those topics." + +"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?" + +Again and most uncomfortably Banneker felt his color change. "Yes; I +have," he admitted. + +"What did you do?" + +"What could I do? The Chief controls the editorial page." + +"You might have stopped writing for it." + +"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." + +"Are you thinking of going on the editorial side?" + +"God forbid!" cried Banneker. + +"Unwilling to deal in other men's ideas, eh? Well, Mr. Banneker, you +have plenty of troubles before you. Interesting ones, however." + +"How much could I make by magazine writing?" asked Banneker abruptly. + +"Heaven alone knows. Less than you need, I should say, at first. How +much do you need?" + +"My space bill last week was one hundred and twenty-one dollars. I +filled 'em up on Sunday specials." + +"And you need that?" + +"It's all gone," grinned Banneker boyishly. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Don't you do it," he advised positively. + +"Do what?" + +"Quit." + +"Who told you I was considering it?" + +"Nobody. I knew it was about time for you to reach that point. We all +do--at certain times." + +"Why?" + +"Disenchantment. Disillusionment. Besides, I hear the city desk has been +horsing you." + +"Then some one _has_ been blabbing." + +"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." + +"There are some things a man can't do," said Banneker with a sort of +appeal in his voice. + +"Nothing," returned Edmonds positively. "Nothing he can't do to get the +news." + +"Did you ever peep through a keyhole?" + +"Figuratively speaking?" + +"If you like. Either way." + +"Yes." + +"Would you do it to-day?" + +"No." + +"Then it's a phase a reporter has to go through?" + +"Or quit." + +"You haven't quit?" + +"I did. For a time. In a way. I went to jail." + +"Jail? You?" Banneker had a flash of intuition. "I'll bet it was for +something you were proud of." + +"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?" + +"An actress, wasn't she?" + +"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." + +"I remember something about that case. The woman withdrew the charge, +didn't she?" + +"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.' + +"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_ 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." + +"Good God!" + +"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." + +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. + +"That makes my troubles seem petty," said Banneker, under his breath. "I +wonder--" + +"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." + +"So it was a woman who held the key!" exclaimed Banneker. + +Edmonds turned on him. "What does that mean? Do you know anything of the +story?" + +"Not all that you've told me. I know the people." + +"Then why did you let me go on?" + +"Because they--one of them--is my friend. There is no harm to her in my +knowing. It might even be helpful." + +"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." + +"The man's wife, was it not?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"No: you won't quit," prophesied the other. + +"I have. That is, I've resigned." + +"Of course. They all do, of your type. It was the peck of dirt, wasn't +it?" + +Banneker nodded. + +"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." + +"There's more than that." + +"Is there? What?" + +"We're a pariah caste, Edmonds, we reporters. People look down on us." + +"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." + +"But we are, aren't we?" persisted Banneker. + +"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." + +"But it's true. You admit it." + +"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." + +"Why?" + +"Because people are mostly fools and fools are afraid or contemptuous of +what they don't understand." + +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?" + +"Bigger. Religion, seven days a week." + +"Well, then--" + +"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?" + +"No. What are they after?" + +"Sensation." + +Banneker turned the word over in his mind, evoking confirmation in the +remembered headlines even of the reputable Ledger. + +"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." + +"But if it's what they want, the fault lies with the public, not with +us," argued Banneker. + +"I used to know a white-stuff man--a cocaine-seller--who had the same +argument down pat," retorted Edmonds quietly. + +Banneker digested that for a time before continuing. + +"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." + +"Hence the noble profession of the pander," observed Edmonds through a +coil of minute and ascending smoke-rings. "He also serves the public." + +"You're not drawing a parallel--" + +"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." + +"Perhaps that's what is wrong with the business, then." + +"Have you any idea," inquired Edmonds softly, "what the philosophy of +the Most Ancient Profession is?" + +Banneker shook his head. + +"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 _they_ scatter abroad +we won't know until a later diagnosis." + +"Yet you advise me to stick in the business." + +"You've got to. You are marked for it." + +"And help scatter the poison!" + +"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." + +"And serve a public that I'll despise as soon as I get strong enough to +disregard it's contempt for me," smiled Banneker. + +"You'll find a public that you can't afford to despise," retorted the +veteran. "There is such a public. It's waiting." + +"Well; I'll know in a couple of weeks," said Banneker. "But _I_ think +I'm about through." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +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. + +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. + +"Mr. Gordon wants to know if you can come back to the office at once." + +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. + +"Sit down, Mr. Banneker," he said. + +Banneker compiled. + +"We can't use that Sippiac story." + +Banneker sat silent and attentive. + +"Why did you write it that way?" + +"I wrote it as I got it." + +"It is not a fair story." + +"Every fact--" + +"It is a most unfair story." + +"Do you know Sippiac, Mr. Gordon?" inquired Banneker equably. + +"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." + +"I spent some time investigating conditions there before I came on the +paper." + +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." + +"To get the facts and print them, so I have understood." + +"These are not facts." The managing editor rapped sharply upon the +proof. "This is editorial matter, hardly disguised." + +"Descriptive, I should call it," returned the writer amiably. + +"Editorial. You have pictured Sippiac as a hell on earth." + +"It is." + +"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." + +"Yes, sir. I understand that." + +"Yet you present here, what is, in effect, a damning indictment of the +Sippiac Mills." + +"The facts do that; not I." + +"But you have selected your facts, cleverly--oh, very cleverly--to +produce that effect, while ignoring facts on the other side." + +"Such as?" + +"Such as the presence and influence of agitators. The evening editions +have the names, and some of the speeches." + +"That is merely clouding the main issue. Conditions are such there that +no outside agitation is necessary to make trouble." + +"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?" + +"Certainly, if the facts constitute that kind of an argument." + +"What of that picture of Horace Vanney? Is that news?" + +"Why not? It goes to the root of the whole trouble." + +"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." + +"I believe in facts." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Certainly not! You are expected to present the news fairly and without +editorial emphasis." + +"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--" + +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." + +"To handle facts tactfully," put in Banneker in his mildest voice. + +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." + +Banneker rose. "Then, I'm not fired?" he said. + +"Not by me." + +"Why not?" + +"Because I'm trusting in your essential honesty to bring you around." + +"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." + +"Go home and think it over," suggested the managing editor. + +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." + +"What's the matter?" inquired Andreas, the fanatical devotee of the +creed of news for news' sake. + +"Quixotism. Did you read his story?" + +"Yes." + +Mr. Gordon looked up from his inflamed knuckles for an opinion. + +"A great job," pronounced Andreas, almost reverently. + +"But not for us." + +"No; no. Not for us." + +"It wasn't a fair story," alleged the managing editor with a hint of the +defensive in his voice. + +"Too hot for that," the assistant supported his chief. "And yet +perhaps--" + +"Perhaps what?" inquired Mr. Gordon with roving and anxious eye. + +"Nothing," said Andreas. + +As well as if he had finished, Mr. Gordon supplied the conclusion. +"Perhaps it is quite as fair as our recast article will be." + +It was, on the whole, fairer. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +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. + +"Hello, Bettina." + +"Hello, Ban." + +"How nearly dressed are you?" + +"Oh--half an hour or so." + +"Go out for a bite, if I come up there?" + +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." + +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. + +"Oh, all right!" returned Banneker amiably. + +The receiver produced, in some occult manner, the manner of not being +precisely pleased with this. "You don't seem much disappointed," it +said. + +"I'm stricken but philosophical. Don't you see me, pierced to the heart, +but--" + +"Ban," interrupted the instrument: "you're flippant. Have you been +drinking?" + +"No. Nor eating either, now that you remind me." + +"Has something happened?" + +"Something is always happening in this restless world." + +"It has. And you want to tell me about it." + +"No. I just want to forget it, in your company." + +"Is it a decent night out?" + +"Most respectable." + +"Then you may come and walk me home. I think the air will do me good." + +"It's very light diet, though," observed Banneker. + +"Oh, very well," responded the telephone in tones of patient +resignation. "I'll watch you eat. Good-bye." + +Seated at a quiet table in the restaurant, Betty Raleigh leaned back in +her chair, turning expectant eyes upon her companion. + +"Now tell your aged maiden auntie all about it." + +"Did I say I was going to tell you about it?" + +"You said you weren't. Therefore I wish to know." + +"I think I'm fired." + +"Fired? From The Ledger? Do you care?" + +"For the loss of the job? Not a hoot. Otherwise I wouldn't be going to +fire myself." + +"Oh: that's it, is it?" + +"Yes. You see, it's a question of my doing my work my way or The +Ledger's way. I prefer my way." + +"And The Ledger prefers its way, I suppose. That's because what you call +_your_ work, The Ledger considers _its_ work." + +"In other words, as a working entity, I belong to The Ledger." + +"Well, don't you?" + +"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?" + +"Unless you're big enough not to." + +"Being big enough means getting out, doesn't it?" + +"Or making yourself so indispensable that you can do things your own +way." + +"You're a wise child, Betty," said he. "What do you really think of the +newspaper business?" + +"It's a rotten business." + +"That's frank, anyway." + +"Now I've hurt your feelings. Haven't I?" + +"Not a bit. Roused my curiosity: that's all. Why do you think it a +rotten business?" + +"It's so--so mean. It's petty." + +"As for example?" he pressed. + +"See what Gurney did to me--to the play," she replied naively. "Just to +be smart." + +"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." + +"He's dramatic criticism," she retorted. + +"No. Only one phase of it." + +"Anyway, a successful phase." + +"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." + +"He'd always rather say a clever thing than a true one." + +Banneker gave her a quick look. "Is that the disease from which the +newspaper business is suffering?" + +"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." + +"Weren't any of them honest?" + +"Lots. But very few of them independent. They can't be. Not even the +owners, though they think they are." + +"I'd like to try that." + +"You'd only have a hundred thousand bosses instead of one," said she +wisely. + +"You're talking about the public. They're your bosses, too, aren't +they?" + +"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." + +"Whereas what you really love is the power within yourself to please +them. You call it art, I suppose." + +"Ban! What a repulsive way to put it. You're revenging yourself for what +I said about the newspapers." + +"Not exactly. I'm drawing the deadly parallel." + +She drew down her pretty brows in thought. "I see. But, at worst, I'm +interpreting in my own way. Not somebody else's." + +"Not your author's?" + +"Certainly not," she returned mutinously. "I know how to put a line over +better than he possibly could. That's _my_ business." + +"I'd hate to write a play for you, Bettina." + +"Try it," she challenged. "But don't try to teach me how to play it +after it's written." + +"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." + +"The newspapers don't print yours at all, do they? Unless you shoot some +one," she added maliciously. + +"True enough. But I don't think I'd shine as a playwright." + +"What will you do, then, if you fire yourself?" + +"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!" + +She was looking him in the face with an expression of frank curiosity. +"Ban, does money never trouble you?" + +"Not very much," he confessed. "It comes somehow and goes every way." + +"You give the effect of spending it with graceful ease. Have you got +much?" + +"A little dribble of an income of my own. I make, I suppose, about a +quarter of what your salary is." + +"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." + +"Much nicer." + +"Do you know what they call you, around town?" + +"Didn't know I had attained the pinnacle of being called anything, +around town." + +"They call you the best-dressed first-nighter in New York." + +"Oh, damn!" said Banneker fervently. + +"That's fame, though. I know plenty of men who would give half of their +remaining hairs for it." + +"I don't need the hairs, but they can have it." + +"Then, too, you know, I'm an asset." + +"An asset?" + +"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." + +"You do have to furnish a diagram, though." + +"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!'" + +"I don't go to afternoon teas," said the subject of this sprightly +sketch, sulkily. + +"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.' _Et voila tout_!" + +"Suppose you were with me at the Plaza, as an asset, several years +hence?" + +"I shouldn't be--several years hence." + +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--" + +"Ban! What right have you to think me a wretched little snob?" + +"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." + +"But in a few years from now you won't be a reporter." + +"Shall I still be privileged to invite Miss Raleigh to supper--or was it +tea?" + +"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?" + +"Is there? Do you mind it?" + +"No. It doesn't matter. They think I'm crazy about you." Her clear, +steady eyes did not change expression or direction. + +"You're not; are you?" + +"No; I'm not. That's the strange part of it." + +"Thanks for the flattering implication. But you couldn't take any +serious interest in a mere reporter, could you?" he said wickedly. + +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." + +"That sounds like an invitation, but--" + +"But you know it isn't. That's the delightful part of you; you do know +things like that." + +"Also I know better than to risk my peace of mind." + +"Don't lie to me, my dear," she said softly. "There's some one else." + +He made no reply. + +"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. + +"No; I don't deny it." + +"But you don't want to talk about her." + +"No." + +"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. + +Banneker had the grace to blush. Instantly she rippled into laughter. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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. _He_'d have been a stage-door Johnnie +if he hadn't stubbed his toe and become a press-agent." + +"All right," said Banneker. "Now: I'll ask the stupid questions and you +give the cutie answers." + +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." + +He bent and kissed her cheek lightly. "I'll have my try at success," he +said. "But the other isn't so easy." + +"You'll find them one and the same," was her parting prophecy. + +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. + +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: + +"Mr. Horace Vanney wishes to relieve his soul of some priceless +information. Will you call at his office at two-thirty?" + +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. + +"Have you read the morning papers, Mr. Banneker?" + +"Yes. That's my business, Mr. Vanney." + +"Then you can see, by the outbreak in Sippiac, to what disastrous +results anarchism and fomented discontent lead." + +"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." + +"Fortunately it is under control. The trouble-makers and thugs have been +taught a needed lesson." + +"Especially the six-year-old trouble-making thug who was shot through +the lungs from behind." + +Mr. Vanney scowled. "Unfortunate. And the papers laid unnecessary stress +upon that. Wholly unnecessary. Most unfair." + +"You would hardly accuse The Ledger, at least, of being unfair to the +mill interests." + +"Yes. The Ledger's handling, while less objectionable than some of the +others, was decidedly unfortunate." + +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." + +"You are not over-loyal to your employer, sir," commented the other +severely. + +"At least I'm defending the paper against your aspersions," returned +Banneker. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"I've had the practice, some time since." + +"But if you've only knocked about the field with stable-boys--" + +"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." + +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. + +Banneker shook his head, but wistfully. + +"Until you're making enough to carry your own." + +"That might be ten years, in the newspaper business. Or never. + +"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." + +"No, thank you. No paid-athlete job for mine. I'd rather stay a +reporter." + +"Come into the club, anyway. You can afford that. And at least you can +take a mount on your day off." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Densmore, there's something I've been wanting to put up to you." + +Densmore's heavy brows came to attention. "Fire ahead." + +"You were ready to beat me up when I came here to ask you certain +questions." + +"I was. Any fellow would be. You would." + +"Perhaps. 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." + +"No concern of mine." + +"But you'd read it, wouldn't you?" + +"Probably." + +"And if your paper didn't have it in and another paper did, you'd buy +the other paper to find out about it." + +"If I was interested in the people, I might." + +"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?" + +"That's the other fellow's bad luck. If he--" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Then you shouldn't take advantage of his efforts, as you do when you +read about your friends." + +"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 _you_; 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?" + +"No; I don't," replied Banneker ruefully. "I feel like a man trying to +hold up a bigger man with a toy pistol." + +"Then you'd better get into some other line." + +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. + +"Yes; I've read it," said the editor at once, not waiting for the +question. "It's clever. It's amazingly clever." + +"I'm glad you like it," replied Banneker, pleased but not surprised. + +Mr. Gaines's expression became one of limpid innocence. "Like it? Did I +say I liked it?" + +"No; you didn't say so." + +"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. + +"The plot?" + +"No; no. Not the plot. The plot is nothing. The idea of choosing such an +environment and doing the story in that way." + +"From The New Era Magazine." + +"I begin to see. You have been studying the magazine." + +"Yes. Since I first had the idea of trying to write for it." + +"Flattered, indeed!" said Mr. Gaines dryly. "And you modeled yourself +upon--what?" + +"I wrote the type of story which the magazine runs to." + +"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." + +"You believe that I have deliberately copied--" + +"A type, not a story. No; you are not a plagiarist, Mr. Banneker. But +you are very thoroughly a journalist." + +"Coming from you that can hardly be accounted a compliment." + +"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.'" + +Inwardly Banneker was raging. The incisive perception stung. But he +spoke lightly. "Doesn't The New Era want what its public wants?" + +"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." + +"I have read pink-tea stories in your magazine." + +"Of course you have. Written by people who could see through the pink to +the primary colors underneath. When _you_ go to a pink tea, you are +pink. Did you ever go to one?" + +Still thoroughly angry, Banneker nevertheless laughed, "Then the story +is no use?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Out of pique?... Hold hard, young sir! You can't shoot an editor in his +sanctum because of an ill-advised but natural question." + +"True enough. Nor do I want--well, yes; I would rather like to." + +"Good! That's natural and genuine." + +"What do you think The Bon Vivant would pay for that story?" inquired +Banneker. + +"Perhaps a hundred dollars. Cheap, for a career, isn't it!" + +"Isn't the assumption that there is but one pathway to the True Art and +but one signboard pointing to it a little excessive?" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"Do you expect to get copy for nothing?" inquired the astonished and +annoyed Banneker. + +"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." + +"I don't follow you." + +"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!" + +It was upon the tip of Banneker's tongue to demand the copy back. +Then he bethought himself of Betty's disappointment. The thing _was_ +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. + +"All right," he said shortly. + +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! + +The magazine field, he began to suspect, might prove to be arid land. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"And the fragments come back and cut. I know. But what does it all lead +to, Tommy?" + +"Depends on which way you're going." + +"To the top, naturally." + +"From anybody else that would sound blatant, Ban," returned Tommy +admiringly. "Somehow you get away with it. Are you as sincere as you +act?" + +"In so far as my intentions go. Of course, I may trip up and break +myself in two." + +"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?" + +"Paragon of wisdom, you have stated the situation. Now produce the +answer." + +"More money?" inquired Tommy. + +"More money. More opportunity." + +"Then you've got to aim at the executive end. Begin by taking a +copy-desk." + +"At forty a week?" + +"It isn't so long ago that twenty-five looked pretty big to you, Ban." + +"A couple of centuries ago," stated Banneker positively. "Forty a week +wouldn't keep me alive now." + +"You could write a lot of specials. Or do outside work." + +"Perhaps. But what would a desk lead to? + +"City editor. Night city editor. Night editor. Managing editor at +fifteen thou." + +"After ten years. If one has the patience. I haven't. Besides, what +chance would _I_ have?' + +"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." + +"Tommy," said Banneker, "I'm still new at this game. What becomes of +star reporters?" + +"Drink," replied Tommy brusquely. + +"Rats!" retorted Banneker. "That's guff. There aren't three heavy +drinkers in this office." + +"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." + +"But some must stick." + +"They play out early. The game is too hard. They get to be hacks. _Or_ +permanent desk-men. D'you know Philander Akely?" + +"Who is he?" + +"Ask me who he _was_ 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." + +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. + +"Do you play draughts, Mr. Banneker?" he asked in a rumbling bass. + +"Very little and very poorly." + +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?" + +"I'm afraid I know almost nothing of it," confessed Banneker. + +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. + +"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." + +"That's pretty rotten treatment for him, then," said Banneker +indignantly. + +"Not a bit of it. He isn't worth what he gets. Most offices would have +chucked him out on the street." + +"What was his trouble?" + +"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." + +"Then it isn't a tragedy at all." + +"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_ think the +_facilis descensus_ to the gutter is almost preferable." + +"So you've shown him to me as a dreadful warning, have you, Tommy?" +mused Banneker aloud. + +"Get out of it, Ban; get out of it." + +"Why don't you get out of it yourself?" + +"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." + +"What do you reckon the turning-point?" + +"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." + +"No. I'm not going to quit the game. It's my game. I'm going to beat +it." + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +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 _cul-de-sac_. + +"It's about time you quit," said Edmonds vigorously. + +"You've changed your mind?" + +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." + +"I didn't write it." + +"Didn't uh? You were there." + +"My story went to the office cat." + +"What was the stuff they printed? Amalgamated Wire Association?" + +"No. Machine-made rewrite in the office." + +"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." + +"You weren't precisely neutral in The Courier." + +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." + +"Horace Vanney says you're an anarchist." + +"It's mutual. I think he's one. To hell with all laws and rights that +discommode _Me_ and _My_ interests. That's the Vanney platform." + +"He thinks he ought to have advertised." + +"Wise guy! So he ought." + +"To secure immunity?" + +It required six long, hard puffs to elicit from Edmonds the opinion: +"He'd have got it. Partly. Not all he paid for." + +"Not from The Ledger," said Banneker jealously. "We're independent in +that respect." + +Edmonds laughed. "You don't have to bribe your own heeler. The Ledger +believes in Vanney's kind of anarchism, as in a religion." + +"Could he have bought off The Courier?" + +"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." + +"Didn't they kick on your story?" + +"Who? The mill people? Howled!" + +"But it didn't get them anything?" + +"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." + +"Well, why didn't you?" + +"Interview was killed," replied Edmonds, grinning ruefully. "For the +best interests of the paper. That's what the Vanney crowd's kick got +them." + +"Pop, what do you make of Willis Enderby?" + +"Oh, he's plodding along only a couple of decades behind his time." + +"A reactionary?" + +"Didn't I say he was plodding along? A reactionary is immovable except +in the wrong direction. Enderby's a conservative." + +"As a socialist you're against any one who isn't as radical as you are." + +"I'm not against Willis Enderby. I'm for him," grunted the veteran. + +"Why; if he's a conservative?" + +"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." + +"Dangerous? To whom?" + +"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." + +"Probably he thinks his side will win, under the strict rules of the +game." + +"Of course. But if he didn't, he'd still be for fair play, to the last +inch." + +"That's a pretty fine thing to say of a man, Pop." + +"It's a pretty fine man," said Edmonds. + +"What does Enderby want? What is he after?" + +"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." + +"Politically?" + +"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." + +"I'd like to be able to fall in behind him when the time comes." + +"On The Ledger?" grunted Edmonds. + +"But I shan't be on The Ledger when the time comes. Not if I can find +any other place to go." + +"Plenty of places," affirmed Edmonds positively. + +"Yes; but will they give me the chance I want?" + +"Not unless you make it for yourself. But let's canvass 'em. You want a +morning paper." + +"Yes. Not enough salary in the evening field." + +"Well: you've thought of The Sphere first, I suppose." + +"Naturally. I like their editorial policy. Their news policy makes me +seasick." + +"I'm not so strong for the editorials. They're always for reform and +never for progress." + +"Ah, but that's epigram." + +"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." + +"The Observer! O Lord! Preaches the eternal banalities and believes them +the eternal verities." + +"Epigram, yourself," grinned Edmonds. "Well, The Monitor?" + +"The three-card Monitor, and marked cards at that." + +"Yes; you'd have to watch the play. The Graphic then?" + +"Nothing but an ornamental ghost. The ghost of a once handsomely kept +lady. I don't aspire to write daily epitaphs." + +"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." + +"And conscious of it in every issue. One long and pious scold, after a +high-minded, bad-tempered formula of its own." + +"Then I'll give you a motto for your Ledger." Edmonds puffed it out +enjoyably,--decorated with bluish and delicate whorls. "'_Meliora video +proboque, deleriora sequor_.'" + +"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." + +"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." + +"No; thanks, Pop. You yourself are enough in the troubled-water duckling +line for one old hen like The Courier." + +"Then there remains only The Patriot, friend of the Pee-pul." + +"Skimmed scum," was Banneker's prompt definition. "And nothing in the +soup underneath." + +Ernst, the waiter, scuttled across the floor below, and disappeared back +of the L-angle a few feet away. + +"Somebody's dining there," remarked Edmonds, "while we've been stripping +the character off every paper in the field." + +"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." + +"Bad frame of mind for a man seeking a job. By the way, what _are_ you +out after, exactly? Aiming at the editorial page, aren't you?" + +Banneker leaned over the table, his face earnest to the point of +somberness. "Pop," he said, "you know I can write." + +"You can write like the devil," Edmonds offered up on twin supports of +vapor. + +"Yes, and I can do more than that. I can think." + +"For self, or others?" propounded the veteran. + +"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!" + +"You've tried it?" + +"Experimentally. The opportunities are limitless. I could make people +read editorials as eagerly as they read scandal or baseball." + +"How?" + +"By making them as simple and interesting as scandal or baseball." + +"Oh! As easy as that," observed Edmonds scornfully. "High art, son! +Nobody's found the way yet. Perhaps, if--" + +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. + +"Would you gentlemen mind if I took my coffee with you?" said the +newcomer smoothly. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"If we had a newspaper here that wasn't tied hard and fast, +politically!" cried Edmonds presently. + +Marrineal fingered a specially fragrant cigar. "But a newspaper must be +tied to something, mustn't it?" he queried. "Otherwise it drifts." + +"Why not to its reading public?" suggested Banneker. + +"That's an idea. But can you tie to a public? Isn't the public itself +adrift, like seaweed?" + +"Blown about by the gales of politics." Edmonds accepted the figure. +"Well, the newspaper ought to be the gale." + +"I gather that you gentlemen do not think highly of present journalistic +conditions." + +"You overheard our discussion," said Banneker bluntly. + +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." + +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." + +Edmonds followed up the significant phrase. "_More_ active? You have +newspaper interests?" + +"Practically speaking, I own The Patriot. What do you gentlemen think of +it?" + +"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. + +"Forty thousand men, women, and children. Not half enough, of course." + +"Not a tenth enough, I would say, if I owned the paper. Nor are they the +right kind of readers." + +"How would you define them, then?" asked Marrineal, still in that smooth +voice. + +"Small clerks. Race-track followers. People living in that class of +tenements which call themselves flats. The more intelligent servants. +Totally unimportant people." + +"Therefore a totally unimportant paper?" + +"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?" + +"If there were enough of them?" suggested Marrineal. + +"No. Besides, you'll never get enough of them, in the way you're running +the paper now." + +"Don't say 'you,' please," besought Marrineal. "I've been keeping my +hands off. Watching." + +"And now you're going to take hold?" queried Edmonds. "Personally?" + +"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. + +"I've seen newspapers run on formula before," muttered Edmonds. + +"Onto the rocks?" + +"Invariably." + +"That's because the formulas were amateur formulas, isn't it?" + +The veteran of a quarter-century turned a mildly quizzical smile upon +the adventurer into risky waters. "Well?" he jerked out. + +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." + +"It's rather an art, newspaper reading," observed Banneker. + +"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." + +"That's a job for an able-minded man," commented Edmonds, looking at him +with a new respect. + +"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?" + +"Did I? I didn't mean to," said Banneker hastily. "I'm a good deal +interested." + +"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." + +"The imputation of amateurishness is retracted, with apologies," +announced Russell Edmonds. + +"Accepted. Though there are amateur areas yet in my mind. I bought The +Patriot." + +"Does that represent one of the areas?" + +"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?" + +"Cheap and nasty," was the veteran's succinct criticism. + +"Any more so than The Sphere? The Sphere's successful." + +"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?" + +"Because it's what the readers want." + +"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." + +"Does any paper have the confidence of its public?" returned Marrineal. + +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." + +"Only the man who knows newspapers from the inside can disbelieve them +scientifically," put in Banneker with a smile. + +"What would _you_ do with The Patriot if you had it?" interrogated the +proprietor. + +"I? Oh, I'd try to make it interesting," was the prompt and simple +reply. + +"How, interesting?" + +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." + +"You think you could do that?" + +"I think it could be done." + +"Will you come with me and try it?" + +"You're offering me a place on The Patriot staff?" + +"Precisely. Mr. Edmonds is joining." + +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." + +"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." + +"Sound," admitted the veteran. "Perfectly sound. But I'm not specially +in need of money." + +"I'm offering you opportunity." + +"What kind?" + +"Opportunity to handle big stories according to the facts as you see +them. Not as you had to handle the Sippiac strike story." + +Edmonds set down his pipe. "What did you think of that?" + +"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?" + +"Yes. You're not going to make The Patriot a Socialist paper, are you?" + +"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?" + +"Education." + +"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." + +"I've thought. I'm bought," said Russell Edmonds. He resumed his pipe. + +"And you, Mr. Banneker?" + +"I'm not a Socialist, in the party sense. Besides a Socialist paper in +New York has no chance of big circulation." + +"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." + +"What's your purpose?" demanded Banneker. "Money?" + +"I've a very comfortable income," replied Marrineal modestly. + +"Political advancement? Influence? Want to pull the wires?" persisted +the other. + +"The game. I'm out of employment and tired of it." + +"And you think I could be of use in your plan? But you don't know much +about me." + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"No." + +"No?" There was no slightest hint of disappointment, surprise, or +resentment in Marrineal's manner. "Do you mind giving me the reason?" + +"I don't care to be a reporter on The Patriot." + +"Well, this would hardly be reporting. At least, a very specialized and +important type." + +"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." + +"You don't like the editorials," was the inference which Marrineal drew +from this, and correctly. + +"I think they're solemn flapdoodle." + +"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?" + +"Solemnity. It's the blight of editorial expression. All the papers +suffer from it." + +"Then you wouldn't have the editorial page modeled on that of any of our +contemporaries." + +"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." + +"Editorials are supposed to be for thinking men," put in Edmonds. + +"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." + +"Sentimentalism," observed Marrineal. "Not altogether original, either." +But he did not speak as a critic. Rather as one pondering upon new +vistas of thought. + +"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." + +"Where are your editorials, son?" asked the veteran Edmonds abruptly. + +"Locked up." Banneker tapped his forehead. + +"In the place of their birth?" smiled Marrineal. + +"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." + +"Who was he? Did you find out?" asked Edmonds. + +"Some scientific grubber from the museum. I looked up the Darwin book +and decided that he was right; not Darwin; the old croaker." + +"Still, that was not precisely news," pointed out Marrineal. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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." + +"Good Heavens! I should think so," assented Marrineal. "And call for the +police." + +"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.'" + +"Fakey," pronounced Edmonds. "Still, I don't know that there's any harm +in that kind of faking." + +"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." + +"What?" inquired Marrineal. + +"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." + +"About angle-worms?" + +"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--" + +"Could elect Willis Enderby mayor of New York," interjected the +practical Edmonds. + +Marrineal, whose face had become quite expressionless, gave a little +start. "Who?" he said. + +"Judge Enderby of the Law Enforcement Society." + +"Oh! Yes. Of course. Or any one else." + +"Or any one else," agreed Banneker, catching a quick, informed glance +from Edmonds. + +"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." + +"Am I to infer that you intend to help yourself to my idea?" inquired +Banneker. + +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: + +"Because, if you do, it might be as well to give me the chance of +developing it." + +Possibly the "Of course," with which Marrineal responded to this +reasonable suggestion, was just a little bit over-prompt. + +"Give me ten days. No: two weeks, and I'll be ready to show my wares. +Where can I find you?" + +Marrineal gave a telephone address. "It isn't in the book," he said. "It +will always get me between 9 A.M. and noon." + +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. + +"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. + +Banneker and Edmonds looked at each other. "Don't both speak at once," +chuckled Banneker. "What do _you_?" + +"Think of him? He's a smooth article. Very smooth. But I've seen 'em +before that were straight as well as smooth." + +"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." + +"Yes; you have to. He makes himself likable. What do you figure Mr. Ely +Ives to be?" + +"Henchman." + +"Do you know him?" + +"I've seen him uptown, once or twice. He has some reputation as an +amateur juggler." + +"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." + +Banneker made the world-wide symbolistic finger-shuffle of +money-handling. "Legislative?" he inquired. + +"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." + +"Not a particularly desirable person for a colleague." + +"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." + +"I'll show him something interesting if I get hold of that editorial +page." + +"Son, are you up to it, d'you think?" asked Edmonds with affectionate +solicitude. "It takes a lot of experience to handle policies." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Never mind our views. They'll assimilate. What about his?" + +"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." + +"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.'" + +"Do I? But it isn't Emerson. It's Matthew Arnold." + +"Where do you find time for poetry, you old wheelhorse! Never mind; you +ought to be painted as the living embodiment of that line." + +"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?" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +Banneker had resigned. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +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. + +The occupant of the taxi jumped out and ran lightly up the steps. + +"How d'you do, Mrs. Brashear. Am I still excommunicated?" + +"Oh, Mr. Banneker! I'm _so_ glad to see you. If I could tell you how +often I've blamed myself--" + +"Let's forget all that. The point is I've come back." + +"Oh, dear! I do hate not to take you in. But there isn't a spot." + +"Who's got my old room?" + +"Mr. Hainer." + +"Hainer? Let's turn him out." + +"I would in a minute," declared the ungrateful landlady to whom Mr. +Hainer had always been a model lodger. "But the law--" + +"Oh, I'll fix Hainer if you'll fix the room." + +"How?" asked the bewildered Mrs. Brashear. + +"The room? Just as it used to be. Bed, table, couple of chairs, +bookshelf." + +"But Mr. Hainer's things?" + +"Store 'em. It'll be for only a month." + +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. + +"But what are you doing it for, if I may be so bold, Mr. Banneker?" +asked the landlady. + +"Peace, quiet, and work," he answered gayly. "Just to be where nobody +can find me, while I do a job." + +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. + +"I'm indestructible," he assured her. "But next week I shall run around +outside a little." + +"You must," she insisted. + +"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." + +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. + +"What is it all about, if you don't mind telling?" asked his companion +as he bade her good-night early one morning. + +"To find what people naturally talk about," was the ready answer. + +"And then?" + +"To talk with them about what interests them. In print." + +"Then it isn't Elysian-fielding at all." + +"No. It's work. Hard work." + +"And what do you do after it?" + +"Oh, sit up and write for a while." + +"You'll break down." + +"Oh, no! It's good for me." + +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-- + +"Heaven shield and keep us free +From the wizard, Memory +And his cruel necromancies!"-- + +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. + +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. + +"Three-em dash," said he at the close. "That seemed to go fairly well." + +"Are you training me?" asked Miss Westlake. + +"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?" + +She nodded. "I could brush up my shorthand and take it quicker." + +"Do you know shorthand?" He looked at her contemplatively. "Would you +care to take a regular position, paying rather better than this casual +work?" + +"With you?" asked Miss Westlake in a tone which constituted a sufficient +acceptance. + +"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." + +"They are good enough," said Miss Westlake with simple faith. + +"I'll know to-morrow," replied Banneker. + +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. + +"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. + +"If you think my ideas are worth my price," he replied. + +"Let's have the ideas." + +"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. + +"Coals to Newcastle," smiled Marrineal. "These seem to be copies of The +Patriot." + +"Not exact copies. Try this one." Selecting an issue at random he passed +it to the other. + +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. + +"Very interesting," he said presently, in a non-committal manner. "Have +you more?" + +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. + +"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." + +"Exactly." + +"Why the double-column measure?" + +"More attractive to the eye. It stands out." + +"And the heavy type for the same reason?" + +"Yes. I want to make 'em just as easy to read as possible." + +"They're easy to read," admitted the other. "Are they all yours?" + +"Mine--and others'." + +Marrineal looked a bland question. Banneker answered it. + +"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." + +"I see. Straight from the throbbing heart of the people. +Jones-in-the-street-car." + +"And Mrs. Jones. Don't forget her. She'll read 'em." + +"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 _argumentum ad feminam_ with a vengeance." + +"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 _right_ an' he'll come home +to it, 'stid o' workin' the free lunch.'" + +"Here are two on the drink question. 'Next Time Ask the Barkeep Why _He_ +Doesn't Drink,' and, 'Mighty Elephants Like Rum--and Are Chained +Slaves.'" + +"You'll find more moralizing on booze if you look farther. It's one of +the subjects they talk most about." + +"'The Sardine is Dead: Therefore More Comfortable Than You, Mr. +Straphanger,'" read Marrineal. + +"Go up in the rush-hour L any day and you'll hear that editorial with +trimmings." + +"And 'Mr. Flynn Owes You a Yacht Ride' is of the same order, I suppose." + +"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." + +"I see. Still making it easy for them to read." + +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?" + +"All this," said the owner of The Patriot, "is taken from what people +talk and think about?" + +"Yes." + +"Doesn't some of it reach out into the realm of what Mr. Banneker thinks +they _ought_ to talk and think about?" + +Banneker laughed. "Discovered! Oh, I won't pretend but what I propose to +teach 'em thinking." + +"If you can do that and make them think our way--" + +"'Give me place for my fulcrum,' said Archimedes." + +"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." + +"Why not?" + +"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." + +"No innovation at all. In fact, it's adapted plagiarism." + +"From what?" + +"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." + +"Then you're aiming at the weak-minded?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"No. Make a clean sweep of the present editorials. Substitute mine. One +a day will be quite enough for their minds to work on." + +"But that won't fill the page," objected the proprietor. + +"Cartoon. Column of light comment. Letters from readers. That will," +returned Banneker with severe brevity. + +"It might be worth trying," mused Marrineal. + +"It might be worth, to a moribund paper, almost anything." The tone was +significant. + +"Then you are prepared to join our staff?" + +"On suitable terms." + +"I had thought of offering you," Marrineal paused for better effect, +"one hundred and fifty dollars a week." + +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: + +"Those editorials are worth three hundred a week to any paper. As a +starter," he added. + +A pained and patient smile overspread Marrineal's regular features. "The +Patriot's leader-writer draws a hundred at present." + +"I dare say." + +"The whole page costs barely three hundred." + +"It is overpaid." + +"For a comparative novice," observed Marrineal without rancor, "you do +not lack self-confidence." + +"There are the goods," said Banneker evenly. "It is for you to decide +whether they are worth the price asked." + +"And there's where the trouble is," confessed Marrineal. "I don't know. +They might be." + +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." + +"You are mistaken," returned Marrineal. + +"Then the news-stands and circulation lists are mistaken, too," retorted +the other. "Would you care to see my figures?" + +Marrineal waved away the suggestion with an easy gesture which +surrendered the point. + +"Very well. I'm backing the new editorial idea to get circulation." + +"With my money," pointed out Marrineal. + +"I can't save you the money. But I can spread it for you, that three +hundred dollars." + +"How, spread it?" + +"Charge half to editorial page: half to the news department." + +"On account of what services to the news department?" + +"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." + +"Haven't you forgotten the London correspondence?" + +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." + +"And while you are doing all these things who is to carry out the +editorial idea?" + +"I am." + +Marrineal stared. "Both? At the same time?" + +"Yes." + +"No living man could do it." + +"I can do it. I've proved it to myself." + +"How and where?" + +"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." + +"You won't live out the six months." + +"Insure my life if you like," laughed Banneker. "Work will never kill +me." + +Marrineal, sitting with inscrutable face turned half away from his +visitor, was beginning, "If I meet you on the salary," when Banneker +broke in: + +"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." + +"With what substitute?" + +"A salary based upon one cent a week for every unit of circulation put +on from the time the editorials begin publication." + +"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." + +"Well? Won't it be worth the money?" + +"I suppose it would," admitted Marrineal dubiously. "Of course fifty +thousand in six months is an extreme assumption. Suppose the circulation +stands still?" + +"Then I starve. It's a gamble. But it strikes me that I'm giving the +odds." + +"Can you amuse yourself for an hour?" asked Marrineal abruptly. + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +When he returned to Marrineal's den, he found Russell Edmonds with the +host. + +"Well, son, you've turned the trick," was the veteran's greeting. + +"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. + +"Yes. They're dam' good." + +"Aren't they dam' good?" returned Banneker eagerly. + +"They'll save the day if anything can." + +"Precisely my own humble opinion if a layman may speak," put in +Marrineal. "Mr. Banneker, shall I have the contract drawn up?" + +"Not on my account. I don't need any. If I haven't made myself so +essential after the six months that you _have_ to keep me on, I'll want +to quit." + +"Still in the gambling mood," smiled Marrineal. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +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!" + +By way of keeping to the same level Banneker replied cheerfully: "I'm +not." + +"Where've you been all this while?" + +"Working." + +"Where were you Monday last? Didn't see you at Sherry's." + +"Working." + +"And the week before? You weren't at The Retreat." + +"Working, also." + +"And the week before that? Nobody's seen so much--" + +"Working. Working. Working." + +"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?" + +"Oh, Lord! Hainer!" exclaimed Banneker appreciatively. "Well, he told +the truth." + +"You look pulled down, too, by Jove!" commented Cressey, concern on his +sightly face. "Ridin' for a fall, aren't you?" + +"Only for a test. I'm going to let up next week." + +"Tell you what," proffered Cressey. "Let's do a day together. Say +Wednesday, eh? I'm giving a little dinner that night. And, oh, I say! By +the way--no: never mind that. You'll come, won't you? It'll be at The +Retreat." + +"Yes: I'll come. I'll be playing polo that afternoon." + +"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." + +"Don't want it. I'm through with polo." + +"Ban! What the devil--" + +"Work, I tell you. Next season I may be able to play. For the present +I'm off everything." + +"Have they made you _all_ the editors of The Ledger in one?" + +"I'm off The Ledger, too. Give you all the painful details Wednesday. +Fare-you-well." + +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. + +"Just as you were beginning to know one end of your stick from the +other," growled the irate team captain. + +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. + +"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." + +"Which reminds me that I've neglected even Mertoun," smiled Banneker. + +"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." + +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: + +"Back so soon, Archie? Want Sis to fix your tie?" + +She turned then and said easily: "Oh, I thought you were my +brother.... How do you do, Ban?" + +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: + +"I didn't know you were to be here, Mrs. Eyre." + +"I knew that you were," she retorted. "And I'm not Mrs. Eyre, please. +I'm Io." + +He shook his head. "That was in another world." + +"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?" + +"Unfair," he said hoarsely. + +"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. + +He made no answer. + +"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. + +"It isn't such a bad place to be," he said, relieved to meet her on the +new ground. + +"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?" + +"I didn't manage. It was managed for me. Old Poultney Masters put me +in." + +"Well, don't scowl at me! For a reporter, you know, it's rather an +achievement to get into The Retreat." + +"I suppose so. Though I'm not a reporter now." + +"Well, for any newspaper man. What are you, by the way?" + +"A sort of all-round experimental editor." + +"I hadn't heard of that," said Io, with a quickness which apprised him +that she had been seeking information about him. + +"Nobody has. It's only just happened." + +"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." + +"Am I taking you in?" + +"No: you're taking in my cousin, Esther Forbes. But I'm on your left. Be +nice to me." + +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. + +"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." + +His answer, composed though it was in tone, quite satisfied her. "I +wouldn't dare touch drink to-night." + +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. + +"Take me out somewhere where there is air to breathe." + +They stood together on the stone terrace, blown lightly upon by a +mist-ladden breeze. + +"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?" + +"No." + +"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?" + +"It will be." + +"And have you reached the Mountains of Fulfillment?" + +He shook his head. "One never does, climbing alone." + +"Has it been alone, Ban?" + +"Yes." + +"Always?" + +"Always." + +"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." + +He outlined his plan and hopes for The Patriot. + +"It's good," she said gravely. "It's power, and so it's danger. But it's +good.... Are we friends, Ban?" + +"How can we be!" + +"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." + +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. + +It was many months before he saw her again. + + + + +PART III + +FULFILLMENT + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +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: + +"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. + +"Naw!" replied the policeman with scorn. "That's Mr. Banneker's house." + +"Banneker? Who's Banneker?" + +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." + +"Givin' a party, huh?" + +"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." + +"Why ain't he on Fi'th Avenyah, then?" demanded the other. + +"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." + +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. + +"Cheest!" exclaimed the wayfarer in tones of awe: "that's K.O. Doyle, +the middleweight, ain't it?" + +"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 _somethin_'. He's a +wonder." + +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. + +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. + +"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--" + +"It will be some little time before you can see him. He's at work." + +"But this is his party, isn't it?" + +"Yes. The party takes care of itself until he comes down." + +"Oh; does it? Well, will it take care of me?" + +"Are you a friend of Mr. Banneker's?" + +"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." + +"Ban will be glad to see you. Take off your things. I am Russell +Edmonds." + +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. + +"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?" + +Edmonds leaned forward to look. "Royce Melvin, the composer, I believe. +I haven't met her." + +"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!" + +"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." + +He walked across the room, made his way through the crescent curving +about Miss Van Arsdale, and, presenting himself, was warmly greeted. + +"Let me take you to Ban," he said. "He'll want to see you at once." + +"But won't it disturb his work?" + +"Nothing does. He writes with an open door and a shut brain." + +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: + +"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." + +"I've brought up an old friend, Ban," announced Edmonds, pushing wide +the door. + +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. + +"Miss Camilla!" he cried. "I thought you said you couldn't come." + +"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." + +"No; don't. Sit up here with me till I finish. I don't want to lose any +of you," said he affectionately. + +But she laughingly refused, declaring that he would be through all the +sooner for his other guests, if she left him. + +"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." + +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. + +"What a superb woman, Ban!" he said. "It's small wonder that Enderby +lost himself." + +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?" + +"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?" + +"Came on to see a specialist. Yes; it's all right. The Enderbys are +abroad." + +"I see. How long since you'd seen her?" + +"Before this trip? Last spring, when I took a fortnight off." + +"You went clear West, just to see her?" + +"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." + +"You're a queer chap, Ban. And a loyal one." + +"If I weren't loyal to Camilla Van Arsdale--" said Banneker, and left +the implication unconcluded. + +"Another friend from your picturesque past is down below," said Edmonds, +and named Gardner. + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +The Great Gaines made a deprecating gesture. "My little efforts always +sound better when I'm not present," he protested. + +"To be the subject of any Gaines epigram, however stinging, is fame in +itself," said Banneker. + +"And no sting in this one. 'Attic salt and American pep,'" she quoted. +"Isn't it truly spicy?" + +Banneker bowed with half-mocking appreciation. "I fancy, though, that +Mr. Gaines prefers his journalistic egg more _au naturel_." + +"Sometimes," admitted the most famous of magazine editors, "I could +dispense with some of the pep." + +"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." + +"Modern life is such a din that one has to screech to be heard above +it," said Banneker pleasantly. + +"Isn't it the newspapers which make most of the din, though?" suggested +the mathematician. + +"Shouting against each other," said Gaines. + +"Like Coney Island barkers for rival shows," put in Junior Masters. + +"Just for variety how would it do to try the other tack and practice a +careful but significant restraint?" inquired Betty. + +"Wouldn't sell a ticket," declared Banneker. + +"Still, if we all keep on yelling in the biggest type and hottest words +we can find," pointed out Edmonds, "the effect will pall." + +"Perhaps the measure of success is in finding something constantly more +strident and startling than the other fellow's war whoop," surmised +Masters. + +"I have never particularly admired the steam calliope as a form of +expression," observed Miss Van Arsdale. + +"Ah!" said the actress, smiling, "but Royce Melvin doesn't make music +for circuses." + +"And a modern newspaper is a circus," pronounced the satyr-like scholar. + +"Three-ring variety; all the latest stunts; list to the voice of the +ballyhoo," said Masters. + +"_Panem et circenses_" 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." + +"We've got to feed what the animal eats," defended Banneker lightly. + +"After having stimulated an artificial appetite," said Edmonds. + +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. + +"Did it, Betty? How, when, and where?" + +"I thought you were horridly patronizing about the new piece, and quite +unkind to me, for a friend." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Not of this new one of yours. He's worse than Gurney. Who is he and +where does he come from?" + +"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." + +"Which it isn't here," commented the special pet of the theatrical +reviewers. + +"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." + +"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." + +Banneker chuckled. "Just why I got him. He doesn't let the personal +element prejudice him." + +"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." + +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." + +"This isn't play at all. It's very much earnest. Do be nice about it, +Ban." + +"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?" + +"Yes. I thought you were terribly presuming." + +"I told you that you were probably the only woman present who wasn't +purchasable." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Ban! I'm not." + +"What else is it when you try to use your influence to have me fire our +nice, new critic?" + +"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." + +"I've suspected as much. That would settle the obnoxious critic, +wouldn't it! Though it's rather a roundabout way." + +"Ban! You're beastly." + +"Yes; I apologize," he replied quickly. "But--have I got to revise my +estimate of you, Betty? I should hate to." + +"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--" + +"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. + +"Would you think any the less of me?" she asked wistfully. + +"Would you think any the less of yourself?" he countered. + +The blossoming spray broke under her hand. "Ah, yes; that's the question +after all, isn't it?" she murmured. + +Meantime, Gardner, the eternal journalist, fostering a plan of his own, +was gathering material from Guy Mallory who had come in late. + +"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." + +"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." + +"He must be a wonder at concentration." + +"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--" + +"The Retreat? Good Lord! He doesn't belong to The Retreat, does he?" + +"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.' + +"'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." + +Gardner had been listening with a kindling eye. He brought his fist down +on his knee. "You've told me something!" he exclaimed. + +"Going to try it out on your own game?" + +"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?" + +"It certainly is," confirmed Mallory. "But do you really think that he +reasoned it all out on the spur of the moment?" + +"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." + +"Ask him. He'll probably tell you," said Mallory. "At least, he'll be +interested in your theory." + +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. + +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. + +"I don't expect you to like it," he added. + +"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." + +"Because I'm not there, as an individual." + +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. + +"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." + +"To what end?" she asked doubtfully. + +"Does it matter? Isn't the thinking, in itself, end enough?" + +"Brutish thinking if it's represented in your screaming headlines." + +"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." + +"And you use your power over their minds to incite them to discontent." + +"Certainly." + +"But that's dreadful, Ban! To stir up bitterness and rancor among +people." + +"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." + +"Ban! A virtue?" + +"Well; isn't it? Call it by the other name, ambition. What then?" + +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." + +"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?" + +"But isn't there always the danger of making a profession of +discontent?" + +"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." + +"But he gives you a free hand?" she asked. + +"He has to," said Banneker simply. + +Camilla Van Arsdale sighed. "It's success, Ban. Isn't it?" + +"Yes. It's success. In its kind." + +"Is it happiness?" + +"Yes. Also in its kind." + +"The real kind? The best kind?" + +"It's satisfaction. I'm doing what I want to do." + +She sighed. "I'd hoped for something more." + +He shook his head. "One can't have everything." + +"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." + +"She has other interests. No; it isn't Betty." + +"Ban, there are times when I could hate her," broke out Miss Van +Arsdale. + +"Who? Betty?" + +"You know whom well enough." + +"I stand corrected in grammar as well as fact," he said lightly. + +"Have you seen her?" + +"Yes. I see her occasionally. Not often." + +"Does she come here?" + +"She has been." + +"And her husband?" + +"No." + +"Ban, aren't you ever going to get over it?" + +He looked at her silently. + +"No; you won't. There are a few of us like that. God help us!" said +Camilla Van Arsdale. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +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? + +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. + +"What do you think of him?" began the magnate. + +"Able," grunted the other. + +"If he weren't, I wouldn't be troubling my head about him. What else? +Dangerous?" + +"As dangerous as he is upright. Exactly." + +"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?" + +"To anything he goes after. He's got a following. I might almost say a +blind following." + +"Got a boss, too, hasn't he?" + +"Marrineal? Ah, I don't know how far Marrineal interferes. And I don't +know Marrineal." + +"Upright, too; that one?" The sneer in Masters's heavy voice was +palpable. + +"You consider that no newspaper can be upright," the lawyer interpreted. + +"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?" + +"The Sphere, among them?" queried the lawyer. + +"Damn The Sphere!" exploded the other. "A dirty, muck-grubbing, lying, +crooked rag." + +"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?" + +Masters shrugged the problem away with a thick and ponderous jerk of his +shoulders. "What's young Banneker after?" he demanded. + +"You ought to know him as well as I. He's a sort of protege of yours, +isn't he?" + +"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." + +"Found a bigger game." + +"Umph! But what's in back of it?" + +"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." + +"Maybe. But what about this anarchistic stuff of his?" + +"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." + +"Now you're laughing at me, damn you, Enderby." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"It's very young stuff. But it's got a quality, hasn't it?" + +"Oh, hell, yes; quality!" rumbled the profane old man. "Well, I will +tackle your young prodigy one of these days." + +Which, accordingly, he did, encountering, some days later, Banneker in +the reading-room at The Retreat. + +"What are you up to; making trouble with that editorial screed of +yours?" he growled at the younger man. + +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. + +"No. I'm trying to cure trouble, not make it." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"Not a hair's-weight. If you fill the minds of the ignorant with that +sort of thing, where shall we end?" + +"If you fill the minds of the ignorant, they will no longer be +ignorant." + +"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." + +"Aren't they too good if they can think themselves into something +better?" + +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." + +"Destructive, isn't it?" said Banneker, looking up quickly. + +"Now, you want to go farther. You want to teach 'em to think." + +"Exactly. Why not?" + +"Why not? Why, because, you young idiot, they'll think wrong." + +"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." + +"With the newspapers to guide them?" There was a world of scorn in the +magnate's voice. + +"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." + +"Tittle-tattle. Tale-mongering," was Masters's contemptuous +qualification. + +"A royal mission," laughed Banneker. "I call the Sage to witness. 'But +the glory of kings is to search out a matter.'" + +"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." + +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 _genre_, 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: + +"And _you_ have made all this, Ban?" + +"At least I've remade it." + +She shook her head. "No; as I told you before, I can't see you in it." + +"You mean, it doesn't express me. It isn't meant to.' + +"Whom does it express, then? Mr. Marrineal?" + +"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." + +"An echo of _vox populi_? Does that excuse its sins?" + +"I'm not putting it forth as an excuse. Is it really sins or only bad +taste that offends you?" + +"Clever, Ban. And true in a measure. But insincerity is more than bad +taste. It's one of the primal sins." + +"You find The Patriot insincere?" + +"Can I find it anything else, knowing you?" + +"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." + +"My dear Ban! I don't want to judge you." + +"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." + +"For your own purposes? Thought, as you manipulate it, might be a +high-explosive. Have you thought of using it in that way?" + +"If I found a part of the social edifice that had to be blown to pieces, +I might." + +"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?" + +"One of our most prominent young murderesses." + +"And you let her sign a column on your page?" + +"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." + +"Ban! I hate to have you so cynical." + +"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." + +"What class is Reformed Rennigan's sermon aimed at?" she inquired, with +wrinkling nostrils. "'Soaking it to Satan'; is that another regular +feature?" + +"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?" + +"No, I thank you," returned his visitor dryly. + +"No? Are you sure? What is your opinion of 'The Star-Spangled Banner' as +a national song?" + +"It's dreadful." + +"Why?" + +"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?" + +"Ask it of The Patriot's public. I'll follow it up editorially; 'Wanted; +A Song for America.'" + +"I will," she answered impulsively. Then she laughed. "Is that the way +you get your contributors?" + +"Often, as the spider said to the fly," grinned Banneker the shameless. +"Take a thousand words or more and let us have your picture." + +"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?" + +"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." + +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. + +"What? The society page?" said he. "Yes; I was against dropping it. You +see, Miss Van Arsdale, I'm a Socialist in belief." + +"Is there a pun concealed in that or are you serious, Mr. Edmonds?" + +"Serious. I'm always that on the subjects of Socialism and The Patriot." + +"Then you must explain if I'm to understand." + +"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." + +"Still I don't see. With what purpose?' + +"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." + +"You mean that it makes him discontented." + +"Well, discontent is a mighty leaven." + +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?" + +"Underneath all his appearance of candor, Marrineal's a secret animal," +said Edmonds. + +"Does he leave you a free hand with your editorials, Ban?" inquired the +outsider. + +"Absolutely." + +"Watches the circulation only," said Edmonds. "Thus far," he added. + +"You're looking for an ulterior motive, then," interpreted Miss Van +Arsdale. + +"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." + +"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." + +"And you?" The other's smile seemed enmeshed in the dainty spiral of +smoke brooding above his pursed lips. + +"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." + +"In the bonds of your own discipline?" asked Miss Van Arsdale. + +"If I could chain a mind I'd be the most splendid tyrant of history. No. +Free leadership of the free is good enough." + +"If Marrineal will leave you free," commented the veteran. "What's your +diagnosis of Marrineal, then?" + +"A priest of Baal." + +"With The Patriot in the part of Baal?" + +"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." + +"What rubbish!" said Miss Van Arsdale with amused scorn. + +"Oh, because you've nothing to ask or fear from Baal. Yet even you would +use it, for your musical preachment." + +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. + +"I can imagine nothing printed," said the woman who had loved Willis +Enderby, "that could in any manner influence my life." + +"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." + +"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." + +"I'm not sure that I understand what he means," said Miss Van Arsdale, +"but it has a sinister sound." + +"Are Baal's other names Bribery and Blackmail?" glowered Edmonds. + +"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." + +"As soon as we've made it strong enough," supplied Edmonds. + +"An instrument of what?" inquired Miss Van Arsdale. + +"Power for himself. Political, I suppose." + +"Does he want office?" she asked. + +"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." + +"Yes; he thinks he can't afford to keep on paying you by circulation. +You're putting on too much." This from Edmonds. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"What is it making of him, Mr. Edmonds?" Banneker's oldest friend turned +her limpid and anxious regard upon his closest friend. + +"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?" + +"Cynicism," she breathed uneasily. + +"It's the curse of the game. But it doesn't get the worker who feels his +work striking home." + +"Do you see any trace of cynicism in the paper?" asked Banneker +curiously. + +"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?" + +"Ask Edmonds," said Banneker. + +"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." + +"Isn't it too strong for you two?" asked the doubting woman-soul. + +"No. We understand it because we made it." + +"Frankenstein once said something like that," she murmured. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +Camilla Van Arsdale had partly read his dream, and could have wept for +it and him. + +Io Eyre had begun to read it, and her heart went out to him anew. For +this was the test of success. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"I thought--I heard--" + +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. + +"I've looted our conservatory," said she. "Papa will slay me. They'll +last to Chicago." + +After an almost imperceptible hesitation she kissed the older woman. She +gave her hand to Banneker. "I knew I should find you here." + +"Any other woman of my acquaintance would have said, 'Who would have +expected to find you here!'" commented Miss Van Arsdale. + +"Yes? I suppose so. But we've never been on that footing, Ban and I." +Io's tone was casual; almost careless. + +"I thought that you were in the country," said Banneker. + +"So we are. I drove up this morning to bid Miss Van Arsdale _bon +voyage_, and all the luck in the world. I suppose we three shall meet +again one of these days." + +"You prophesy in the most matter-of-fact tone a gross improbability," +observed Miss Van Arsdale. + +"Oh, our first meeting was the gross improbability," retorted the girl +lightly. "After that anything might be logical. _Au revoir_." + +"Go with her, Ban," said Miss Camilla. + +"It isn't leaving time yet," he protested. "There's five whole minutes." + +"Yes; come with me, Ban," said Io tranquilly. + +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. + +Ban and Io walked down the long platform in a thoughtful silence which +disconcerted neither of them. Io led the way out of it. + +"At half-past four," she stated, "I had a glass of milk and one +cracker." + +"Where do you want to breakfast?" + +"Thanking you humbly, sir, for your kind invitation, the nearer the +better. Why not here?" + +They found a table in the well-appointed railroad restaurant and +ordered. Over her honey-dew melon Io asked musingly: + +"What do you suppose she thinks of us?" + +"Miss Camilla? What should she think?" + +"What, indeed? What do we think, ourselves?" + +"Has it any importance?" he asked gloomily. + +"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?" + +"Since I came to New York, you mean?" + +"Yes." + +"Nine times." + +"So many? And how much have we talked together? All told; in time, I +mean." + +"Possibly a solid hour. Not more." + +"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." + +"No. We've never lost touch." + +"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?" + +"No. You know I wasn't." + +"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. + +'We twain once well in sunder +What will the mad gods do +For hate with me, I wond--'" + +"My God, Io! Don't!" + +"Oh, Ban; I'm sorry! Have I hurt you? I was dreaming back into the old +world." + +"And I've been trying all these years not to." + +"Is the reality really better? No; don't answer that! I don't want you +to. Answer me something else. About Betty Raleigh." + +"What about her?" + +"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?" + +"No." + +"Tell me why not." + +"For one reason because she doesn't want to marry me." + +"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?" + +"How do I know? If the world hadn't changed under my feet, and the sky +over my head--" + +"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, _honestly_, will you marry Betty Raleigh and--and live happy +ever after?" + +"Would you want me to?" + +"Yes. Truly. And I'd hate you both forever." + +"Betty Raleigh is going to marry some one else." + +"No! I thought--people said--Are you sorry, Ban?" + +"Not for myself. I think he's the wrong man for her." + +"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." + +"Don't they!" retorted Banneker bitterly. "You are married." + +"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." + +"Then why in Heaven's name--" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Not politics. It is about Harvey Wheelwright." + +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." + +"Is that any reason why you should exploit him as if he were the +foremost living novelist?" + +"Certainly. Besides, he is, in popularity." + +"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." + +"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." + +"It has that effect." + +"Ah! That's my art," chuckled Banneker. "_That's_ literary skill, if you +choose!" + +"Do you know what I call it? I call it treason." + +His mind flashed to meet hers. She read comprehension in his changed +face and the shadow in her eyes, lambent and profound, deepened. + +"Treason to the world that we two made for ourselves out there," she +pursued evenly. + +"You shattered it." + +"To the Undying Voices." + +"You stilled them, for me." + +"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. + +"I wouldn't let them. They all sang of you." + +She sighed, but about the tender corners of her lips crept the tremor of +a smile. Instantly she became serious again. + +"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." + +"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." + +Io amplified and concluded her critique briefly and viciously. "A slug!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"What did you come to New York for?" + +"Success." + +"As in all the fables. And you've found it. It was almost too easy, +wasn't it?" + +"Indeed, not. It was touch and go." + +"Would you have come but for me?" + +He stared at her, considering, wondering. + +"Remember," she adjured him; "success was my prescription. Be flattering +for once. Let me think that I'm responsible for the miracle." + +"Perhaps. I couldn't stay out there--afterward. The loneliness...." + +"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." + +"For what?" + +"Oh, no; no!" She answered the harsh thought subtending his query. "Not +for myself. Not for any pride. I'm not cheap, Ban." + +"No; you're not cheap." + +"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." + +He caught up the last word. "You've admitted to yourself, then, that it +was a mistake?" + +"I played the game," she retorted. "One can't always play right. But one +can always play fair." + +"Yes; I know your creed of sportsmanship. There are worse religions." + +"Do you think I played fair with you, Ban? After that night on the +river?" + +He was mute. + +"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?" + +"No." + +"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?" + +"Yes." + +"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...?" + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"Anyway," he said with a sudden savage jealousy, "whatever happened you +would not have gone away to marry Eyre." + +"Should I not? I'm by no means sure. You don't understand much of me, my +poor Ban." + +"How could you!" he burst out. "Would that have been--" + +"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." + +"Would he have married you?" + +"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." + +"And would you have come back to me, Io?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Because it's true." + +"But why tell her? So that it should come back to me?" + +She answered him straight and fearlessly. "Yes. I thought it would be +easier for you to hear from her." + +"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. + +"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." + +"She won't live forever," muttered Banneker. + +"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." + +"Haven't you any work to do to-day?" she asked after a pause, with a +successful effect of lightness. + +He roused himself, settled the check, and took her to her car, parked +near by. + +"Where do you go now?" he asked. + +"Back to the country." + +"When shall I see you again?" + +"I wonder," said Io. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +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. + +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." + +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: + +"This is more important to YOU, Mr. New Yorker, than any other news in +to-day's issue." + +"Where Banneker sits," Russell Edmonds was wont to remark between puffs, +"is the head of the paper." + +"Let 'em look for the stuff," said Banneker confidently. "They'll think +all the more of it when they find it." + +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. + +"Jollies you along until he can see the white of your mind, and then +fires his slug into your head, point-blank," Edmonds said. + +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. + +"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." + +"Let 'em imitate," returned Banneker indifferently. + +"Yes; they don't come very near to the original. It's a fundamental +difference in style." + +"It's a fundamental difference in aim." + +"Aim?" + +"They're writing at and for their owners; to make good with the boss. +I'm writing at my public." + +"I believe you're right. It's more difficult, though, isn't it, to write +for a hundred thousand people than at one?" + +"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--" + +"A fifty-thousand-dollar a year man," supplied Edmonds. + +"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." + +"What do you want! Look at the circulation. Isn't that good enough?" + +"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?" + +"I've a general notion of the process." + +"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." + +The veteran grunted. "Not to be found on Park Row." + +"Probably not. Park Row is too deadly conventional." + +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. + +"You're not a newspaper man?" said Banneker after the introduction. +"What are you?" + +"I'm a prostitute," answered the other equably. + +Banneker smiled. "Where have you practiced your profession?" + +"As assistant editor of Guidance. I write the blasphemous editorials +which are so highly regarded by the sweetly simple souls that make up +our _clientele_; the ones which weekly give gratuitous advice to God." + +"Did Mr. Edmonds find you there?" + +"No," put in the veteran; "I traced him down through some popular +scientific stuff in the Boston Sunday Star." + +"Fake, all of it," proffered Severance. "Otherwise it wouldn't be +popular." + +"Is that your creed of journalism?" asked Banneker curiously. + +"Largely." + +"Why come to The Patriot, then? It isn't ours." + +Severance raised his fine eyebrows, but contented himself with saying: +"Isn't it? However, I didn't come. I was brought." He indicated Edmonds. + +"He gave me more ideas on news-dressing," said the veteran, "than I'd +pick up in a century on the Row." + +"Ideas are what we're after. Where do you get yours, Mr. Severance, +since you are not a practical newspaper man?" + +"From talking with people, and seeing what the newspapers fail to do." + +"Where were you before you went on Guidance?" + +"Instructor at Harvard." + +"And you practiced your--er--specified profession there, too?" + +"Oh, no. I was partly respectable then. + +"Why did you leave?" + +"Drink." + +"Ah? You don't build up much of a character for yourself as prospective +employee." + +"If I join The Patriot staff I shall probably disappear once a month or +so on a spree." + +"Why should you join The Patriot staff? That is what you fail to make +clear to me." + +"Reference, Mr. Russell Edmonds," returned the other negligently. + +"You two aren't getting anywhere with all this chatter," growled the +reference. "Come, Severance; talk turkey, as you did to me." + +"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." + +"What do you suspect the trouble to be?" asked Banneker. + +"Oh, the universal difficulty. Lack of brains." + +Banneker laughed, but without relish. "We pay enough for what we've got. +It ought to be good quality." + +"You pay not wisely but too well. My own princely emolument as a prop of +piety is thirty-five dollars a week." + +"Would you come here at that figure?" + +"I should prefer forty. For a period of six weeks, on trial." + +"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." + +"Wait a minute," interposed Edmonds. "What's his title? How is his job +to be defined?" + +"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." + +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. + +"Is it a play for the women?" he asked Severance in the early days of +the development. + +"No." + +"You're certainly specializing on femaleness." + +"For the men. Not the women. It's an old lure." + +Banneker frowned. "And not a pretty one." + +"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?" + +"Half-dressed women," said Banneker, whose early researches had extended +even to those levels. + +"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." + +"I've thought him rather old-fashioned. What do you want to do?" + +"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." + +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 _flair_ 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. + +"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." + +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. + +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, _panem_ not +_circenses_. + +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. + +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. + +"It itches." + +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. + +"Aren't you rather overdoing this thing, Severance?" + +"Which thing? We're overdoing everything; hence the growth of the +paper." + +Banneker fell back upon banality. "Well, we've got to draw the line +somewhere." + +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. '_Nulla dies sine linea_.' 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." + +"I see. You were in earnest more or less when in our first talk, you +defined your profession." + +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." + +"You're interesting me. But, 'among ourselves' you say. You're not a +newspaper man; you haven't the traditions." + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"You mean," said Banneker, deliberately stimulating his own growing +nausea, "that it makes the public's mind itch." + +"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." + +"No. No; we're not. Still--" + +"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." + +"Quite so! You lure them into the dive where I wait to preach them a +sermon." + +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; + +"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." + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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 _n_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. + +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! + +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: + +"Give 'em a laugh." + +"The potentialities of humor as a circulation agency," opined Severance +in his smoothest academic voice, "have never been properly exploited." + +"A laugh on every page where there ain't a thrill," pursued Sheffer +confidently. + +"You find some of our pages dull?" asked Banneker, always interested in +any new view. + +"Well, your market page ain't no scream. You gotta admit it." + +"People don't usually want to laugh when they're studying the stock +market," growled Edmonds. + +"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." + +"There's always a cartoon on the editorial page," pointed out Banneker. + +"Cartoon? What does that get you? A cartoon's an editorial, ain't it?" + +Russell Edmonds shot a side glance at Banneker, meaning: "This is no +fool. Watch him." + +"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?" + +"All right. What's your aim?" + +"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." + +"The anatomy of anti-melancholy," murmured Severance. "Valuable." + +"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." + +"How would you produce this desirable effect?" asked Severance. + +"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." + +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. + +"Did you draw these?" asked Banneker in surprise, for the +draughtsmanship was expert. + +"No. Hired a kid artist to do 'em. I furnished the idea." + +"Oh, you furnished the idea, did you?" queried Edmonds. "And where did +you get it?" + +With an ineffably satisfied air, Mr. Sheffer tapped his bullet head. + +"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." + +"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--" + +"For 'Americanize,' read 'steal,'" commented Edmonds. + +"There ain't no thin' crooked in this," protested the other with +sincerity. "The stuff ain't copyrighted here. I looked that up +particularly." + +"Quite true, I believe," confirmed Severance. "It's an open field." + +"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." + +"I believe they will," said Severance. + +"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?" + +"What do you think, Mr. Banneker?" asked Severance. + +"It's worth trying," decided Banneker after thought. "You don't think +so, do you, Pop?" + +"Oh, go ahead!" returned Edmonds, spewing forth a mouthful of smoke as +if to expel a bad taste. "What's larceny among friends?" + +"But we're not taking anything of value, since there's no copyright and +any one can grab it," pointed out the smooth Severance. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. _He_ 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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +And Banneker took his pay for it, deeming it well earned. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +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. + +He had found Io again. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Busy?" + +"If I weren't, I wouldn't be worth much," returned Banneker, in a +cheerful tone. + +"Well, if you can spare me fifteen minutes--" + +"Sit down." Banneker swiveled his chair to face the other. + +"I needn't tell you that the paper is a success; a big success," began +Marrineal. + +"You needn't. But it's always pleasant to hear." + +"Possibly too big a success. What would you say to letting circulation +drop for a while?" + +"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? + +"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." + +Banneker's inner voice said warningly to Banneker, "So that's it." +Banneker's outer voice said nothing. + +"Then there's the matter of advertising. Your policy is not helping us +much there." + +"The advertising is increasing." + +"Not in proportion to circulation. Nothing like." + +"If the proper ratio isn't maintained, that is the concern of the +advertising department, isn't it?" + +"Very much the concern. Will you talk with Mr. Haring about it?" + +"No." + +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. + +The negative which he returned to Marrineal's question was no more or +less than that astute gentleman expected. + +"We carried an editorial last week on cigarettes, 'There's a Yellow +Stain on Your Boy's Fingers--Is There Another on his Character?'" + +"Yes. It is still bringing in letters." + +"It is. Letters of protest." + +"From the tobacco people?" + +"Exactly. Mr. Banneker, don't you regard tobacco as a legitimate article +of use?" + +"Oh, entirely. Couldn't do without it, myself." + +"Why attack it, then, in your column?" + +"Because my column," answered Banneker with perceptible emphasis on the +possessive, "doesn't believe that cigarettes are good for boys." + +"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." + +"Possibly." + +"And the result is that the tobacco people are threatening to cut us off +from their new advertising appropriation." + +"Out of my department," said Banneker calmly. + +Marrineal was a patient man. He pursued. "You have offended the medical +advertisers by your support of the so-called Honest Label Bill." + +"It's a good bill." + +"Nearly a quarter of our advertising revenue is from the patent-medicine +people." + +"Mostly swindlers." + +"They pay your salary," Marrineal pointed out. + +"Not mine," said Banneker vigorously. "The paper pays my salary." + +"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." + +"Absolutely. To them or for them." + +"I confess I can't see your basis," said the reasonable Marrineal. +"Considering what you have received in income from the paper--" + +"I have worked for it." + +"Admitted. But that you should absorb practically all the profits--isn't +that a little lopsided, Mr. Banneker?" + +"What is your proposition, Mr. Marrineal?" + +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: + +"Cooeperation." + +"Between the editorial page and the advertising department?" + +"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." + +"No. You've got out of me about all you could on that side," observed +Banneker. + +"The policy is established and successful, thanks largely to you. I +would be the last to deny it." + +"What do you reckon as my probable income under the proposed +arrangement?" + +"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." + +"I see," commented Banneker thoughtfully. "You propose to make it worth +my while to walk warily. As the pussy foots it, so to speak." + +"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." + +"Clear. Limpidly clear," murmured Banneker. "And if I decline the new +basis, what is the alternative?" + +"Cut down circulation, and with it, loss." + +"And the other, the real alternative?" queried the imperturbable +Banneker. + +Marrineal smiled, with a touch of appeal in his expression. + +"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." + +"By accepting the offer of the Mid-West Evening Syndicate, beginning at +forty thousand a year?" + +"You're well posted," said Banneker, startled. + +"Of necessity. What would you suppose?" + +"Your information is fairly accurate." + +"I'm prepared to make you a guarantee of forty thousand, as a minimum." + +"I shall make nearer sixty than fifty this year." + +"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." + +"_And_ a free hand with my editorials?" + +"Surely that will arrange itself." + +"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--" + +"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. + +The editor of The Patriot glanced rapidly through them. A puzzled frown +appeared on his face. + +"When did I write these?" + +"You didn't." + +"Who did?" + +"I" + +"They're dam' good." + +"Aren't they!" + +"Also, they're dam' thievery." + +"Doubtless you mean flattery. In its sincerest form. Imitation." + +"Perfect. I could believe I'd written them myself." + +"Yes; I've been a very careful student of The Patriot's editorial +style." + +"The Patriot's! Mine!" + +"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." + +"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. + +"Would you say," continued the smooth voice of the other, "that these +might be mistaken for your work?" + +"Nobody would know the difference. It's robbery of the rankest kind. But +it's infernally clever." + +"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. + +"Banneker," he said chuckling, "aren't they really dam' good!" and +vanished. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +He left the letter unfinished, and the issue to the fates. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +"Do you figure him to be the compromising sort?" asked Marrineal +doubtfully. + +"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." + +Marrineal shook his head. "If there's a weakness in him I haven't found +it." + +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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"A station-agent's taste in women friends--" began Marrineal, and +forbore unnecessarily to finish. + +"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." + +"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." + +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: + +"Then she was probably the real thing. The princess on vacation. You +don't know who she was, I suppose," he added tentatively. + +Marrineal did not answer, thereby giving his factotum uncomfortably to +reflect that he really must not expect payment for information and the +information also. + +"I guess he'll bear watching." Ives wound up with his favorite +philosophy. + +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. + +"Dangerous, my young friend! Dangerous!" + +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. + +Ely Ives's analysis of Banneker's situation was in a measure responsible +for Marrineal's proposition of the new deal to his editor. + +"He has accepted it," the owner told his purveyor of information. "But +the real fight is to come." + +"Over the policy of the editorial page," opined Ives. + +"Yes. This is only a truce." + +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. + +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 _suppressio veri_ or +the _suggestio falsi_, 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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Say you're glad to see me," she said imperatively. + +"Light up the three eyes," Banneker ordered the doorman. "Are you +answered?" he said to Io. + +"Ah, that's very pretty," she approved. "It means 'welcome,' doesn't +it?" + +"Welcome," he assented. + +"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." + +"They lose," answered Banneker with finality. + +"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." + +"Your welcome includes full amnesty." + +"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." + +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. + +"I thought the castle was closed," he wondered. "How did you cross the +inviolable barriers?" + +"I had the magic password," smiled Io. + +"Youth? Beauty? Or just audacity?" + +"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. + +"You knew Banneker before? But, of course. Everybody knows Banneker." + +"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?" + +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." + +"Then you have confidence in Mr. Banneker?" she asked quickly. + +"Well--in a way, I have," he returned hesitantly. + +"But with reservations," she interpreted. "What are they?" + +"One, only, but a big one. The Patriot itself. You see, Io, The Patriot +is another matter." + +"Why is it another matter?" + +"Well, there's Marrineal, for example." + +"I don't know Mr. Marrineal. Evidently you don't trust him." + +"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?" + +Io devoted a moment's study to the lined and worn face of the veteran. +"No. I think you're right," she pronounced. + +"In any case, he isn't responsible for The Patriot. He can't help it." + +"Don't be so cryptic, Cousin Billy. Can't help what? What is wrong with +the paper?" + +"You wouldn't understand." + +"But I want to understand," said imperious Io. + +"As a basis to understanding, you'd have to read the paper." + +"I have. Everyday. All of it." + +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?" + +"Some of them are too disgusting to discuss." + +"Did it occur to you to compare them with the lofty standards of our +young friend's editorials?" + +"What has he to do with the advertisements?" she countered. + +"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." + +"Well? Surely that kind of editorial makes for good." + +"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." + +"Do you suppose that Mr. Banneker knew that?" + +"Probably not. But he knows that his paper takes money for publishing +those vicious advertisements." + +"Suppose he couldn't help it?" + +"Probably he can't." + +"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." + +"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." + +"But, Cousin Billy, you don't believe that a newspaper should shut out +liquor and tobacco advertisements, do you?" + +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." + +"Don't all the newspapers publish the same kind of advertisements?" +argued the girl. + +"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." + +"If Mr. Banneker were your client, would you advise him to resign?" she +asked shrewdly. + +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." + +"You use The Patriot for your purposes," Io pointed out. + +"When it stands for what I believe right. I only wish I could trust it." + +"Then you _really_ feel that you can't trust Mr. Banneker?" + +"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." + +"I don't," said Io, and there was pride in her avowal. + +"My dear," said the Judge gravely, "what does it all mean? Are you +letting yourself become interested in Errol Banneker?" + +Io raised clear and steady eyes to the concerned regard of her old +friend. "If I ever marry again, I shall marry him." + +"You're not going to divorce poor Delavan?" asked the other quickly. + +"No. I shall play the game through," was the quiet reply. + +For a space Willis Enderby sat thinking. "Does Banneker know your--your +intentions?" + +"No." + +"You mustn't let him, Io." + +"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." + +"God grant that he may prove as honest!" he half whispered. + +Presently Banneker, bearing a glass of champagne and some pate +sandwiches for Io, supplanted the lawyer. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +He shook his head. "This late? That would be cruelty to my secretary." + +"I'll take it down for you. I'm fairly fast on the typewriter." + +"Will you give me the subject, too?" + +"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?" + +"The Sears-Roebuck catalogue? I get a copy every season, to renew the +old thrill." + +"What a romanticist you are!" said she softly. "Couldn't you write an +editorial about it?" + +"Couldn't I? Try me. Come up to the den." + +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. + +"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 _you_ permeating everything--youth--the unknown +splendor of life--Now! Go!" + +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!" + +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. + +"I'll give you a title," she said, recovering herself. "Call it 'If +there were Dreams to Sell.'" + +"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. + +"All the people who really matter will." + +"Some who matter a lot to The Patriot will. The local merchants who +advertise with us. They'll be wild." + +"Why?" + +"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!" + +"Tell me about the relation between advertising and policy, Ban," +invited Io, and summarized Willis Enderby's views. + +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. + +"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." + +"But when it affects the editorial attitude--" + +"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." + +"Yes," she acquiesced eagerly. + +"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." + +"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." + +"Io!" he cried. "Does that mean--" + +"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." + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +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. + +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? + +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-- + +What else was it? Wasn't the paper turning on its own advertisers? + +Well; in a sense. But not-- + +But nothing! Wasn't it trying to undermine their legitimate business? + +Not intentionally, Mr. Haring was (piteously) sure. + +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? + +Certainly, certainly, gentlemen. Granted. + +Could the paper run a month, a fortnight, a week without advertising? + +No; no! It couldn't. No newspaper could. + +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? + +Indeed, gentlemen, if he, Haring, were in control of the paper-- + +Then, why; why the _hell_ 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. + +Mr. Haring understood their feelings, sympathized, even shared them. +Unfortunately the editorial page was quite out of his province. + +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. + +Mr. Haring was sorry, but Mr. Marrineal was out of town. (Fiction.) + +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-- + +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.) + +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. + +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 _jeu d'esprit_, the expression of a passing fancy for a +tempting subject, not of a policy to be further pursued. + +"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 +_not_ advertise in The Patriot." + +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. + +Beside the sweating and agonizing business manager, Marrineal looked +very cool and tolerant and mildly amused. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"What else is worrying you, Ban?" she asked. + +Banneker did not want to talk about that. He wanted to talk about Io, +about themselves. He said so. She shook her head. + +"Tell me about the paper." + +"Oh, just the usual complications. There's nothing to interest you in +them." + +"Everything," she maintained ardently. + +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. + +"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." + +"Yes. You are for it when it is right and not always against it when it +is wrong." + +"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." + +"Isn't the labor element for Laird?" + +"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." + +"Perhaps he wants to be bought off." + +"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." + +"Get hold of him and talk it out with him," advised Io. + +"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." + +"I like The Ledger," declared Io. + +"Why?" + +"I don't know. It has a sort of dignity; the dignity of self-respect." + +"Hasn't The Patriot?" demanded the jealous Banneker. + +"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." + +"Are we so often wrong, Io?" he said wistfully. + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Yet you're hostile to organized labor! Who shall ever understand the +feminine mind! Some day you'll be coming to us for help." + +"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." + +"To the public that reads us," he corrected. + +"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?" + +"Yet," he said, "any kind of censorship is worse than the evil it +remedies. I've never shown you my creed, have I?" + +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. + +"Tell me," she bade him. + +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: + +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. + +Twice she read the pregnant message. + +"I have it," said she gravely. "To keep--for always." + +"Some day I'll put it at the head of The Patriot." + +"Why not now?" + +"Not ready. I want to be surer; absolutely sure." + +"I'm sure," she declared superbly; "of you." + +"You make me sure of myself, Io. But there's Marrineal." + +"Yes; there's Marrineal. You must have a paper of your own, mustn't you, +Ban, eventually?" + +"Perhaps. If I ever get enough money to own it absolutely." + +"Only four years ago," she murmured, with apparent irrelevancy. "And +now--" + +"When shall I see you again?" he asked anxiously as she rose. "Are you +coming Saturday night?" + +"Of course," said Io. + +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. + +"Hypocrite," muttered the giant. + +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-- + +Certainly, The Patriot was interested; would obtain and publish the +story in full, if it was as Mr. McClintick represented, with due +editorial comment. + +"Will it?" grumbled McClintick, gave his hat a look of mingled hope and +skepticism, put it on, and went away. + +"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?" + +"Plenty," returned the veteran in a tone which might have served for +echo of the labor man's gloom. + +"Do you know the Veridian story?" + +"Yes. I've just checked it up." + +"What's the milk in that cocoanut?" + +"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?" + +"To see the principal owner of the name," said Banneker grimly. + +The quest took him to the big house on upper Fifth Avenue. Marrineal +heard his editorial writer with impassive face. + +"So the story has got here," he remarked. + +"Yes. Do you own Veridian?" + +"No." + +Hope rose within Banneker. "You don't?" + +"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. + +"Have you seen The Chicago Transcript? It's an ugly story." + +"Very. I've sent a man out to the camp. There won't be any more +shootings." + +"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." + +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." + +For half an hour they talked politics, nothing else. + +At the office Edmonds was making a dossier of the Veridian reports. It +was ready when Banneker returned. + +"Let it wait," said Banneker. + +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. + +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. + +"Poor Ban!" she said softly. "It isn't so simple, having power to play +with, is it?" + +"But how am I to handle this?" + +"The mills belong to Mr. Marrineal's mother, you said?" + +"Practically they do." + +"And she is--?" + +"A silly and vain old fool." + +"Is that his opinion of her?" + +"Necessarily. But he's fond of her." + +"Will he really try to remedy conditions, do you think?" + +"Oh, yes. So far as that goes." + +"Then I'd drop it." + +"Print nothing at all?" + +"Not a word." + +"That isn't what I expected from you. Why do you advise it?" + +"Loyalty." + +"The paralytic virtue," said Banneker with such bitterness of conviction +that Io answered: + +"I suppose you don't mean that to be simply clever." + +"It's true, isn't it?" + +"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--" + +"That's his infernal cleverness. I'd have told him to go to the devil." + +"And resigned?" + +"Of course." + +"You can resign now," she pointed out. "But I think you'd be foolish. +You can do such big things. You _are_ 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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"Perfectly," she answered in her clear undertone. + +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. + +"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." + +"Poor Ban!" whispered Io. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +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. + +"Oh, yes; hypnotism too," said Ely Ives briskly, after twenty minutes of +legerdemain. "Child's play." + +"Now, who suggested hypnotism?" murmured Stecklin in his limpid and +confidential undertone, close to Banneker's ear. "You? I? No! No one, +_I_ think." + +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. + +"What's the special idea?" he demanded. + +"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." + +"You can't do it," retorted Eyre. + +"For a bet," Ives came back. + +"A hundred?" + +"Double it if you like." + +"You're on." Eyre, slowly swallowing the last of a brandy-and-soda, +rose, reaching into his pocket. + +"Not necessary, between gentlemen," said Ely Ives with a gesture just a +little too suave. + +"Ah, yes," muttered the lawyer at Banneker's side. "Between gentlemen. +Eck-xactly." + +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! _Hep_!" + +The heels clicked, but with a stuttering, weak impact. Eyre, bulky and +powerful, staggered, toppled to the left. + +"Hold up there!" His neighbor propped him, and was clutched in his +grasp. + +"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." + +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." + +"No; no! A check will be _quite_ all right," protested Ives. "At your +convenience." + +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. + +"Very curious. Shrewd; yes. A clever fellow.... Sad, too." + +"Sad?" He turned sharply on the lawyer of unsavory suits. "What is sad +about it? A fool and his money! Is that tragedy?" + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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--" + +"Does he know it?" + +"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." + +"Damn him," said Banneker quietly. "General paralysis?" + +"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?" + +Banneker reached for a drink. "How long?" he asked. + +"As for that, he is very strong. It might be slow. One prays not." + +"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. + +"That bet of yours was a joke, Ives," he prescribed. + +Ives studied him in silence, wishing that he had watched, through the +dinner, how much drink he took. + +"A joke?" he asked coolly. "I don't understand you." + +"Try," advised Banneker with earnestness. "I happen to have read that +luetic diagnosis, myself. A joke, Ives, so far as the two hundred goes." + +"What do you expect me to do?" asked the other. + +"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--" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +"That is McClintick?" asked Io. + +"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." + +"McClintick is right," remarked Io thoughtfully. + +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." + +"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?" + +"Io, the soul of man is simple and clear compared with the soul of a +newspaper." + +"If it has a soul." + +"Of course it has. It's got to have. Otherwise what is it but a +machine?" + +"Which is The Patriot's; yours or Mr. Marrineal's? I can't," said Io +quaintly, "quite see them coalescing." + +"I wonder if Marrineal has a soul," mused Banneker. + +"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?" + +"Ignore it. It would be difficult to answer. Besides, people easily +forget." + +"A dangerous creed, Ban. And a cynical one. I don't want you to be +cynical." + +"I never shall be again, unless--" + +"Unless?" she prompted. + +"It rests with you, Io," he said quietly. + +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. + +"Make up your party," assented Banneker. "Keep it small; say a dozen, +and we can use my office." + +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. + +"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." + +"It ought to be Danish to be accurate," he smiled. + +"Well, that's a hardy, seafaring race," she chattered. "And that reminds +me. Come on out to the South Seas with us." + +"Charmed," he returned. "When do we start? To-morrow?" + +"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." + +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: + +"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." + +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. + +At noon next day she called him on the 'phone. + +"Just to tell you that I'm coming as usual Saturday evening," she said. + +"When do you leave on your cruise?" he asked. + +"Not until next week. I'll tell you when I see you. Good-bye." + +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. + +"After a time, when zese chatterers are gon-away, I shall play for you. +Is zere some one here who can accompany properly?" + +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. + +"Well?" + +"Are you really going, Io?" + +"Certainly. Why shouldn't I?" + +"Say that, for one reason"--he smiled faintly, but resolutely--"The +Patriot needs your guiding inspiration." + +"All The Patriot's troubles are over. It's plain sailing now." + +"What of The Patriot's editor?" + +"Quite able to take care of himself." + +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?" + +"Because I choose." + +"A child's answer. Why?" + +"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." + +"From me?" + +"Or from myself. Wouldn't you like to think that I'm afraid of you?" + +"I shouldn't like to think that you're afraid of anything." + +"I'm not." But her tone was that of the defiance which seeks to +encourage itself. + +"I'd call it a desertion," he said steadily. + +"Oh, no! You're secure. You need nothing but what you've got. Power, +reputation, position, success. What more can heart desire?" she taunted. + +"You." + +She quivered under the blunt word, but rallied to say lightly: "Six +months isn't long. Though I may stretch it to a year." + +"It's too long for endurance." + +"Oh, you'll do very well without me, Ban." + +"Shall I? When am I to see you again before you go?" + +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." + +There was a controlled and dangerous gravity in his next question. "Io, +have we quarreled?" + +"How absurd! Of course not." + +"Then--" + +"If you knew how I dislike fruitless explanations!" + +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. + +"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 _zere_, 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." + +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. + +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, faerie figure to his eyes, misty +through interlaced bloom and leafage. + +"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." + +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. + +"Oh, Ban!" cried Io's spirit. + +Noiseless and swift, Banneker, answering the call, bent over her. She +whispered, softly, passionately, her lips hardly stirring the +melody-thrilled air. + +"How could I hurt you so! I'm going because I must; because I daren't +stay. You can understand, Ban!" + +The music died. "Yes," said Banneker. Then, "Don't go, Io!" + +"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." + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +"No. Stay as you are." + +"I thought you had gone," he said thickly. + +A great log toppled in the fireplace, showering its sparks in prodigal +display. + +"Do you remember our fire, on the river-bank?" said the voice of the +girl, Io, across the years. + +"While I live." + +"Just you and I. Man and woman. Alone in the world. Sometimes I think it +has always been so with us." + +"We have no world of our own, Io," he said sadly. + +"Heresy, Ban; heresy! Of course we have. An inner world. If we could +forget--everything outside." + +"I am not good at forgetting." + +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: + +"Try, Ban." + +Her mouth closed down upon his, flower-sweet, petal-light, and was +withdrawn. She leaned back, gazing at him from half-closed, inscrutable +eyes. + +"That's for good-bye, Io?" With all his self-control, he could not keep +his voice steady. + +"There have been too many good-byes between us," she murmured. + +He lifted his head, attentive to a stir at the door, which immediately +passed. + +"I thought that was Archie, come after you." + +"Archie isn't coming." + +"Then I'll send for the car and take you home." + +"Won't you understand, Ban? I'm not going home." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +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. + +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. + +"Why should I skulk?" she said. "I'm not ashamed." + +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? + +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. + +"No," she said with assurance. "I owe Del nothing. That is understood +between us." + +"But if the tittle-tattle that must be going the rounds should come to +his ears--" + +"If the truth should come to his ears," she replied tranquilly, "it +would make no difference." + +Ban looked at her, hesitant to be convinced. + +"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." + +"He hasn't been so particular," said Ban gloomily. + +"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." + +"Io," he burst out passionately, "there's only one thing in the world I +really want; for you to be free of him absolutely." + +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." + +"No; you're mine," he declared with jealous intensity. + +"Yes; I'm yours." Her voice trembled, thrilled. "You don't know yet how +wholly I'm yours. Oh, it isn't _that_ alone, Ban. But in spirit and +thought. In the world of shadowed and lovely things that we made for +ourselves long ago." + +"But to have to endure this atmosphere of secrecy, of stealth, of danger +to you," he fretted. "You could get your divorce." + +"No; I can't. You don't understand." + +"Perhaps I do understand," he said gently. + +"About Del?" She drew a quick breath. "How could you?" + +"Wholly through an accident. A medical man, a slimy little reptile, +surprised his secret and inadvertently passed it on." + +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." + +"No. You couldn't. If you did, it wouldn't be Io." + +"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?" + +"I remember every smallest thing in any way connected with you." + +"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." + +"Did he say anything?" + +"Yes. He tried to be coy and facetious. I snubbed him soundly. Perhaps +it wasn't wise." + +"Why shouldn't it be?" + +"Well he used to have the reputation of writing on the sly for The +Searchlight." + +"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?" + +"What does The Searchlight have to go on in most of its lies, and hints, +and innuendoes?" + +"But, Io, even if it did publish--" + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"What is this; blackmail?" he asked Ives. + +"Might be." + +"Who wrote it?" + +"Reads like the old buzzard's own style." + +"I'll go and see him," said Banneker, half to himself. + +"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. + +"But it won't smoke him out," he said. "That skunk lives in a deep +hole." + +"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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Quite personally." Banneker returned her smile with one even more +friendly and confiding. + +"Wouldn't I do? Come into my office, won't you? I represent him in some +things." + +"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." + +"Oh, I don't think any one could possibly misconstrue it," she retorted, +with a flash of wicked mirth. + +"You know the paragraph to which I refer, then." + +"I wrote it." + +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. + +"Congratulations," he said. "It is very clever." + +"It's quite true, isn't it?" she returned innocently. + +"As authentic, let us say, as your authorship of the paragraph." + +"You don't think I wrote it? What object should I have in trying to +deceive you?" + +"What, indeed! By the way, what is Major Bussey's price?" + +"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!" + +"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." + +"What is your proposition?" she asked confidentially. + +"How can I advance one when I don't know what your principal wants?" + +"The paragraph was written in good faith," she asserted. + +"And could be withdrawn in equal good faith?" + +Her laugh was silvery clear. "Very possibly. Under proper +representations." + +"Then don't you think I'd better deal direct with the Major?" + +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." + +"But _you're_ 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?" + +"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." + +Banneker, his eyes fixed on hers, played for time and a further lead +with a banality. "You're pleased to flatter me." + +"Aren't you pleased to be flattered?" she returned provocatively. + +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. + +"So you're _that_ 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." + +(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.") + +She stared at him, fearfully, half-hypnotized. + +"Is that the door leading to Bussey's office? Don't speak! Nod." + +Dumb and stricken, she obeyed. + +"I'm going there. Don't you dare make a movement or a noise. If you +do--I'll come back." + +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. + +"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. + +From a side room appeared a thick, heavy-shouldered man with a feral +countenance, who slouched aggressively forward, as the intruder +announced himself. + +"My name is Banneker." + +"Cheest!" hissed the thick bouncer in tones of dismay, and stopped +short. + +Turning, Banneker recognized him as one of the policemen whom his +evidence had retired from the force in the wharf-gang investigation. + +"Oh! Banneker," muttered the editor. His right hand moved slowly, +stealthily, toward a lower drawer. + +"Cut it, Major!" implored Con in acute anguish. "Canche' see he's +gotche' covered through his pocket!" + +The stealthy hand returned to the sight of all men and fussed among some +papers on the desk-top. Major Bussey said peevishly: + +"What do you want with me?" + +"Kill that paragraph." + +"What par--" + +"Don't fence with me," struck in Banneker sharply. "You know what one." + +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: + +"The facts are well authent--" + +Again Banneker cut him short. "Facts! There isn't the semblance of a +fact in the whole thing. Hints, slurs, innuendoes." + +"Libel does not exist when--" feebly began the editor, and stopped +because Banneker was laughing at him. + +"Suppose you read that," said the visitor, contemptuously tossing the +typed script of his new-wrought editorial on the desk. "_That's_ +libellous, if you choose. But I don't think you would sue." + +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?" + +"Only the beginning. I propose to drive you out of town and suppress +'The Searchlight.'" + +"A fair challenge. I'll accept it." + +"I was prepared to have you take that attitude." + +"Really, Mr. Banneker; you could hardly expect to come here and +blackmail me by threats--" + +"Now for my alternative," proceeded the visitor calmly. "You are +proposing to publish a slur on the reputation of an innocent woman +who--" + +"Innocent!" murmured the Major with malign relish. + +"Look out, Major!" implored Con, the body-guard. "He's a killer, he is." + +"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." + +"Cheerfully," assented Banneker. + +Bussey, lifting the typed sheets before him, began to read. Presently +his face flushed. + +"Why, if you print this sort of thing, you'd have my office mobbed," he +cried indignantly. + +"It's possible." + +"It's outrageous! And this--if this isn't an incitement to lynching--You +wouldn't dare publish this!" + +"Try me." + +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. + +"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--" + +"Good-day," said Banneker, and walked out, leaving the Major stranded +upon the ebb tide of his platitudes. + +Banneker retailed the episode to Edmonds, for his opinion. + +"He's afraid of your gun, a little," pronounced the expert; "and more of +your pen. I think he'll keep faith in this." + +"As long as I hold over him the threat of The Patriot." + +"Yes." + +"And no longer?" + +"No longer. It's a vengeful kind of vermin, Ban." + +"Pop, am I a common, ordinary blackmailer? Or am I not?" + +The other shook his head, grayed by a quarter-century of struggles and +problems. "It's a strange game, the newspaper game," he opined. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +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. + +"Will Banneker now be good?" rhetorically queried Ives, pursing up his +small face into an expression of judicious appreciation. "He _will_ be +good!" + +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." + +"That was before he turned blackmailer. Blackmail," philosophized the +astute Ives, "is a gun that you've got to keep pointed all the time." + +"I see. So long as he has Bussey covered by the muzzle of The Patriot, +The Searchlight behaves itself." + +"It does. But if ever he laid down his gun, Bussey would make hash of +him and his lady-love." + +"What about her?" interrogated Marrineal. "Do you really think--" His +uplifted brows, sparse on his broad and candid forehead, consummated the +question. + +For reply the factotum gave him a succinct if distorted version of the +romance in the desert. + +"She dished him for Eyre," he concluded, "and now she's dishing Eyre for +him." + +"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." + +"Or not to get paid for suppressing it," grinned Ives. + +"But does Banneker understand that it's fear of his pen, and not of +being killed, that binds Bussey?" + +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." + +"Would Banneker really kill him, do you think?" + +"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." + +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: + +"Now, if she divorced Eyre and married Banneker--" + +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." + +"Then our hold on Banneker, through his ability to intimidate The +Searchlight, depends on the life of a paretic." + +"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." + +"He wants a lot, anyway," smiled Marrineal. + +"He'll want more. She's an expensive luxury." + +"He can get more. Any time when he chooses to handle The Patriot so that +it attracts instead of offends the big advertisers." + +"Why don't you put the screws on him now, Mr. Marrineal?" smirked Ives +with thin-lipped malignancy. + +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: + +"How are his investments going?" + +Ives grinned again. "Down. Who put him into United Thread? Do you know, +sir?" + +"Horace Vanney. He has been tipping it off quietly to the club lot. +Wants to get out from under, himself." + +"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." + +"Probably to prove his editorial independence." + +"To whom? You?" + +"To himself," said Marrineal with an acumen quite above the shrewdness +of an Ives to grasp. + +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--" + +"You'll never understand just how sane Mr. Banneker is," broke in +Marrineal coldly. He was a very sane man, himself. + +"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." + +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." + +"Three years? Bussey and The Searchlight ought to hold him that long. +Unless, of course, he gets over his infatuation in the meantime." + +"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." + +"Well, what's a woman to expect!" said Ives blandly, and took his +dismissal for the day. + +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. + +"Ives? Oh, he's the office sandbag." + +"Translate, Pop. I don't understand." + +"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." + +"But there must be an eleventh case where there's nothing on the man +that's suing." + +"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." + +"It sounds bad, Pop. But is it so bad, after all? We've got to protect +ourselves against a hold-up." + +"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." + +"Have they? To what extent?" + +"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--" + +"But that's rank blackmail!" exclaimed Banneker. + +"Carried far enough it is. So far it's only private information for the +private archives." + +"Marrineal's?" + +"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." + +"What quarrel have we got with Enderby?" inquired Banneker with lively +interest. + +"None, now. But we'll be after him hot and heavy within a year." + +"Not the editorial page," declared Banneker. + +"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." + +"No. He's never said a word to me." + +"Nor to me. But others have. The mayoralty." + +"For himself?" + +"Of course. He's quietly building up his machine." + +"But Laird will run for reelection." + +"He'll knife Laird." + +"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." + +"He was right in that and you were wrong, Ban. He had to follow the +comptroller there." + +"Is that where our split with Enderby is going to come? Over the +election?" + +"Yes. Enderby is the brains and character back of the Laird +administration. He represents the clean government crowd, with its +financial power." + +Banneker stirred fretfully in his chair. "Damn it!" he growled. "I wish +we could run this paper _as_ a newspaper and not as a chestnut rake." + +"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--" + +"You think Marrineal knows?" interposed Banneker sharply. + +"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." + +"It's bothered me from time to time," admitted the other dryly. + +"It'll bother both of us more, presently," prophesied Edmonds. + +"Then I've been playing direct into Marrineal's hands in attacking Laird +on the franchise matter." + +"Yes. Keep on." + +"Strange advice from you, Pop. You think my position on that is wrong." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"No; and he won't." + +"Why not?" + +"He knows that, in the main, I'm a Laird man. Laird is giving us what we +asked for, an honest administration." + +"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?" + +"Quit." + +Banneker sighed. "It's so easy for you." + +"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." + +"Selling our news columns?" + +"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." + +"Is he?" + +"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." + +"If my proprietor runs for office, I can't very well not support him," +said Banneker, troubled. + +"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." + +"For my editorials on the Combined franchise?" + +"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." + +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. + +"That's a rotten deal!" he exclaimed. + +"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." + +"If he wants to fight us--" began Banneker with gloom in his eyes. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +No world could be other than glorious in which she lived and loved him +and was his. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +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. + +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 _les +convenances_, 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. + +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. + +Immersed in a happiness and a hope which vivified every motion of his +life, Banneker was nevertheless under a continuous strain of +watchfulness; the _qui vive_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +"Ah, but you must pity him, too! He has been so game." + +"Has been?" + +"Yes. This is nearly the end. I shall go down there to be near him." + +"It's a long way, Philadelphia," he said moodily. + +"What a child! Two hours in your car from The Retreat." + +"Then I may come down?" + +"May? You must!" + +He was still unappeased. "But you'll be very far away from me most of +the time." + +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." + +Wherewith, and a promised daily telephone call, he must be content. + +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. + +"Ban, I've been undergoing a solemn preachment." + +"From whom?" + +"Archie." + +"Is Densmore here?" + +"No; he came over to Philadelphia to deliver it." + +"About us?" + +She nodded. "Don't take it so gloomily. It was to be expected." + +He frowned. "It's on my mind all the time; the danger to you." + +"Would you end it?" she said softly. + +"Yes." + +Too confident to misconstrue his reply, she let her hand fall on his, +waiting. + +"Io, how long will it be, with Eyre? Before--" + +"Oh; that!" The brilliance faded from her eager loveliness. "I don't +know. Perhaps a year. He suffers abominably, poor fellow." + +"And after--after _that_, how long before you can marry me?" + +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?" + +"Good God! Would it possibly--" + +"No; no! I shouldn't have said it. I was teasing." + +"You know that there's never been a moment when the one thing worth +living and fighting and striving for wasn't you." + +"And success?" she taunted, but with tenderness. + +"Another name for you. I wanted it only as the reflex of your wish for +me." + +"Even when I'd left you?" + +"Even when you'd left me." + +"Poor Ban!" she breathed, and for a moment her fingers fluttered at his +cheek. "Have I made it up to you?" + +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?" + +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." + +As they talked, the little light of late afternoon had dwindled, until +in their nook they could see each other only as vague forms. + +"Isn't there a table-lamp there?" she asked. "Turn it on." + +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. + +"Do you mind?" she asked softly. Even more softly, she added, "Do you +remember?" + +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: + +"I don't know you. Do I?" + +"Io!" + +"Ah! I didn't mean to say that. It came back to me, Ban. Perhaps it's +true. _Do_ I know you?" + +As in the long ago he answered her: "Are you afraid of me?" + +"Of everything. Of the future. Of what I don't know in you." + +"There's nothing of me that you don't know," he averred. + +"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." + +"Do you trust me now?" he asked for the delight of hearing her declare +it. + +Instead he heard, incredulously, the doubt in her tone. "Do I? I want +to--so much! I did then. At first sight." + +He set down the lamp. She could hear him breathing quick and +stressfully. He did not speak. + +"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." + +"And now?" he whispered. + +"Ah, more than then!" The low cry leapt from her lips. "A thousand times +more." + +"But you don't trust me?" + +"Why don't I, Ban?" she pleaded. "What have you done? How have you +changed?" + +He shook his head. "Yet you've given me your love. Do you trust +yourself?" + +"Yes," she answered with a startling quietude of certainty. "In that I +do. Absolutely." + +"Then I'll chance the rest. You're upset to-night, aren't you, Io? +You've let your imagination run away with you." + +"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." + +"Rede me your riddle, love," he said lightly. + +"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!" + +Approaching footsteps broke in upon them. The square bulk of Jim +Maitland appeared in the doorway. + +"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?" + +"Yes," said Io. "Is Marie down?" + +"Comin' presently. How about a couple of rubbers after dinner?" + +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. + +"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." + +He refused to accept the change to a lighter tone. "I understand this, +Io; that you have begun unaccountably to mistrust me. That hurts." + +"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--" + +"Yet?" + +"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: + +"'This test for love:--in every kiss, sealed fast +To feel the first kiss and forebode the last'-- + +So it has been with us; hasn't it, my lover?" + +"So it shall always be," he answered, low and deep. + +Her eyes dreamed. "How could any man feel what he put in those lines?" +she murmured. + +"Some woman taught him," said Banneker. + +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?" + +"We shall be, some day." + +She shuddered a little, involuntarily. "There's a sense of recall, isn't +there! Do you still love it?" + +"It's the beginning of the Road to Happiness," he said. "The place where +I first saw you." + +"You don't care for many things, though, Ban." + +"Not many. Only two, vitally. You and the paper." + +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." + +"Oh, don't I!" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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?" + +"Of mind and soul. You would be the one to see it. + +'.............the nobleness that lies +Sleeping but never dead in other men, +Will rise in majesty to meet thine own'"-- + +he quoted, smiling into her eyes. + +"Do you ever talk over your editorials with him?" + +"Often. He's my main and only reliance, politically." + +"Only politically? Does he ever comment on other editorials? The one on +Harvey Wheelwright, for instance?" + +Banneker was faintly surprised. "No. Why should he? Did you discuss that +with him?" + +"Indeed not! I wouldn't discuss that particular editorial with any one +but you." + +He moved uneasily. "Aren't you attaching undue importance to a very +trivial subject? You know that was half a joke, anyway." + +"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?" + +"He? He's a bray! But neither was Sears-Roebuck one of the Voices. Yet +you liked my editorial on that." + +"I adored it! You believed what you were writing. So you made it +beautiful." + +"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." + +"Why?" + +"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." + +"What connection has that with the serial?" + +"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." + +"But his serial was just as good or as bad as before, wasn't it?" + +"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." + +"How brown your eyes are, Ban!" said Io. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +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. + +"When are _you_ going to turn on us, Banneker?" + +"That's a cheerful question," retorted the young man good-humoredly, +"considering that it is you people who have gone back on The Patriot." + +"Were any pledges made on our part?" queried Enderby. + +Banneker replied with some spirit: "Am I talking with counsel under +retainer or with a personal friend?" + +"Quite right. I apologize," said the imperturbable Enderby. "Go on." + +"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." + +"I'm not wholly a novice in politics." + +"But I am, practically." + +"Not so much that you can't see what Marrineal would be at." + +"Mr. Marrineal has not confided in me." + +"Nor in me," stated the lawyer grimly. "I don't need his confidence to +perceive his plans." + +"What do you believe them to be?" + +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--" + +"All right," laughed Banneker. "_Touche!_ Assume that Marrineal has +political ambitions. Surely that lies within the bounds of propriety." + +"Depends on how he pushes them. Do you read The Patriot, Banneker?" + +The editor of The Patriot smiled. + +"Do you approve its methods in, let us say, the political articles?" + +"I have no control over the news columns." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Of course." + +"Editorially, I mean." + +"I understand. At least the editorials will be a direct method of +attack, and an honest one. I may assume that much?" + +"Have you ever seen anything in the editorial columns of The Patriot +that would lead you to assume otherwise?" + +"Answering categorically I would have to say 'No.' + +"Answer as you please." + +"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?" + +"Yes. Has he been talking to you about the Veridian killings?" + +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." + +"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?" + +"Impossible. Absurd, as well," acknowledged the other + +"Can you even criticize Marrineal?" + +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. + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +"What does your public care about whether The Patriot loses the city +advertising; or even know about it?" + +"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." + +"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!" + +"No; it isn't a threat. It's a declaration of war, if you like." + +"You think you can beat us? With Marrineal?" + +"Mr. Marrineal isn't an avowed candidate, is he?" evaded Banneker. + +"I fancy that you'll see some rapidly evolving activity in that +quarter." + +"Is it true that Laird has developed social tendencies, and is using the +mayoralty to climb?" + +"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." + +"Russell Edmonds says that social ambition is the only road on which one +climbs painfully downhill." + +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?" + +"Yes. He's for Laird." + +"Stick to Edmonds, Banneker. You can't find a better guide." + +There was desultory talk until the caller got up to go. As they shook +hands, Enderby said: + +"Has any one been tracking you lately?" + +"No. Not that I've noticed." + +"There was a fellow lurking suspiciously outside; heavy-set, dark +clothes, soft hat. I thought that he might be watching you." + +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: + +"Mr. Ives wishes you to report to him at once." + +"Huh?" ejaculated the other, lowering his gaze. + +"At the usual place," pursued the young man. + +"Oh! Aw-right." + +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. + +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. + +"I found a note from you on my desk." + +"Yes. The message came half an hour ago." + +"Through the office?" + +"No. On your 'phone." + +"How did you get into my room?" + +"The door was open." + +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. + +"Much obliged. By the way, on whose authority did you put a shadow on +Judge Enderby?" + +"On mine," interposed Marrineal. "Mr. Ives has full discretion in these +matters." + +"But what is the idea?" + +Ives delivered himself of his pet theory. "They'll all bear watching. It +may come in handy some day." + +"What may?" + +"Anything we can get." + +"What on earth could any but an insane man expect to get on Enderby?" +contemptuously asked Banneker. + +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." + +"Was there?" Banneker's voice was negligent. "That would be hard to +believe." + +"Hard to get hold of in any detail. I've dug some of it out through my +Searchlight connection. Very useful line, that." + +Ives ventured a direct look at Banneker, but diverted it from the cold +stare it encountered. + +"Some woman scrape," he explicated with an effort at airiness. + +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. + +"This isn't a Patriot matter. It is private." + +"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. + +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. + +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: + +"Why is Haslett leaving The Patriot?" Haslett was the Chicago critic +transplanted to take Gurney's place. + +"Is he? I didn't know. You ought not to mourn his loss, Betty." + +"But I do. At least, I'm afraid I'm going to. Do you know who the new +critic is?" + +"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. + +With characteristic directness she replied, "You mean Tertius +Marrineal?" + +"Naturally." + +"That's all off." + +"Betty! Your engagement to him?" + +"So far as there ever was any." + +"Is it really off? Or have you only quarreled?" + +"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." + +"But you must have considered it, for a time." + +"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!" + +"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." + +"It has. That's part of his newspaperishness." + +"From our review of your new play I judge that it was written by the +shade of Shakespeare in collaboration with the ghost of Moliere, and +that your acting in it combines all the genius of Rachel, Kean, Booth, +Mrs. Siddons, and the Divine Sarah." + +"This is no laughing matter," she protested. "Have you seen the play?" + +"No. I'll go to-night." + +"Don't. It's rotten." + +"Heavens!" he cried in mock dismay. "What does this mean? Our most +brilliant young--" + +"And I'm as bad as the play--almost. The part doesn't fit me. It's a +fool part." + +"Are you quarreling with The Patriot because it has tempered justice +with mercy in your case?" + +"Mercy? With slush. Slathering slush." + +"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--" + +"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." + +Banneker frowned. "I think you'd better explain, Betty." + +"Do you know Gene Zucker?" + +"Never heard of him." + +"He's a worm. A fat, wiggly, soft worm from Boston. But he's got an +idea." + +"And that is?" + +"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?" + +"Of course not, Betty. I know you." + +"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." + +"Hell!" snapped Banneker. "I beg your pardon, Betty." + +"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." + +Banneker looked at her searchingly. "Is that why you broke with +Marrineal, Betty?" + +"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." + +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...." + +"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." + +"Betty!" + +"Forgive me, Ban. I'm sick at heart over it all. Of course, I know you +wouldn't." + +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. + +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: + +_The Patriot--Special Theatrical Features E. Zucker, Representative_. + +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. + +"Just a moment," quoth Banneker. "I thought that Allan Haslett had come +on from Chicago to be our dramatic critic." + +"Oh, he and the business office didn't hit it off very well," said +little Zucker carelessly. + +"Oh! And do you hit it off pretty well with the business office?" + +"Naturally. It was Mr. Haring brought me on here; I'm a special +departmental manager in the advertising department." + +"Your card would hardly give the impression. It suggests the news rather +than the advertising side." + +"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." + +"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." + +"Well, there's no bargain to that effect. That wouldn't be classy for a +big paper like ours," replied the high-if somewhat naive-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." + +"I'm immensely interested," confessed Banneker. "But what is your idea +in coming to me about this?" + +"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." + +"Perhaps you'd like to write the editorials, too," suggested Banneker +with baleful mildness. + +"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." + +"Thank you." + +"Well, what do you say?" + +"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." + +"Fine!" enthused the unsuspecting pioneer of business-dramatic +criticism. "It's a pleasure to work with a gentleman like you, Mr. +Banneker." + +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. + +"Don't you go making any fool promises on the strength of what Banneker +said to you," commented Haring. + +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 confrere for this evidence of +cooeperation. + +Life was practicing its lesser ironies upon Banneker whilst maturing its +greater ones. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +Io, on a brief trip from Philadelphia, lunched with him that week, and +found him distrait. + +"It's only politics," he said. "You're not interested in politics," and, +as usual, "Let's talk about you." + +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?" + +He quoted the "Homo sum." "That one?" he asked. + +She nodded. "Now, hear my version: 'I am a woman; nothing that touches +_my_ man is alien to my interests.'" + +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." + +"That's because I'm beautiful," she retorted impudently. "_Tell_ me I'm +beautiful, Ban!" + +"You're the loveliest witch in the world," he cried. + +"So much for flattery. Now--politics." + +He recounted the Laird charges. + +"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?" + +"Ask him? I certainly did not. You don't understand much about politics, +dearest." + +"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." + +"After all the damage has been done. He won't get the chance." +Banneker's jaw set firm. + +"What shall you do now?" + +"Wait my chance, load my pen, and shoot to kill." + +"Let me see the editorial before you print it." + +"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?" + +Her voice fell to a caressing half-note. "I'm a Banneker woman--in +everything. Won't you ever remember that?" + +"No. You'll never be that. You'll always be Io; yourself; remote and +unattainable in the deeper sense." + +"Do _you_ say that?" she answered. + +"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, + +'Still nursing the unconquerable hope, +Still clutching the inviolable shade.' + +Io, why do I always think in poetry, when I'm with you?" + +"I want you always to," she said, which was a more than sufficient +answer. + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Who's all this, Bunny?" inquired Banneker, who had taken in only the +last few words. + +"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!" + +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! + +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? + +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." + +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." + +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. + +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. + +"Unless they can definitely pin the Wall Street label on him," suggested +some one. + +"That might beat him; it's the only thing that could," another opined. + +Hugging his withering phrase to his heart, Banneker felt a growing +exultation. + +"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. + +"Is Laird really the Wall Street candidate?" inquired Esther Forbes. + +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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"What's this administration got to do with Vanney's mills? I thought +they were in Jersey," another diner asked. + +"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." + +Io, seated on Banneker's left, turned to him. "Is that true, Ban?" + +"I've heard rumors to that effect," he replied evasively. + +"Won't it put The Patriot in a queer position, to be making common cause +with an enemy of labor?" + +"It isn't a question of Horace Vanney, at all," he declared. "He's just +an incident." + +"When are you going to write your Laird editorial?" + +"All written. I've got a proof in my pocket." + +She made as if to hold out her hand; but withdrew it. "After dinner," +she said. "The little enclosed porch off the conservatory." + +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. + +"Are you sure that you want to plunge into politics, Io?" Banneker +asked, looking down at her as she seated herself in the cushioned +_chaise longue_. + +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. + +"I'll understand it," she breathed, interpreting into his caress a +quality of pleading. + +Before she had read halfway down the column, she raised to him a +startled face. "Are you sure, Ban?" she interrogated. + +"Read the rest," he suggested. + +She complied. "What a terrible power little things have," she sighed. +"That would make me despise Laird." + +"A million other people will feel the same way to-morrow." + +"To-morrow? Is it to be published so soon?" + +"In the morning's issue." + +"Ban; is it true? Did he say that?" + +"I have it from a man I've known ever since I came to New York. He's +reliable." + +"But it's so unlike Bob Laird." + +"Why is it unlike him?" he challenged with a tinge of impatience. +"Hasn't he been playing about lately with the Junior Masters?" + +"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?" + +"No. Have you ever heard them?" Angry regret beset him the instant the +question had passed his lips. If she replied in the affirmative-- + +"No; I've never happened to hear them," she admitted; and he breathed +more freely. + +"Then my evidence is certainly more direct than yours," he pointed out. + +"Ban; that charge once made public is going to be unanswerable, isn't +it? Just because the thing itself is so cheap and petty?" + +"Yes. You've got the true journalistic sense, Io." + +"Then there's the more reason why you shouldn't print it unless you know +it to be true." + +"But it _is_ true." Almost he had persuaded himself that it was; that it +must be. + +"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." + +Banneker flushed. "You can't do that, Io." + +"Why not?" + +"Why, it isn't the sort of thing that one can very well do," he said +lamely. + +"Not ask Junior if he and Bob Laird are old chums and call each other by +their first names?" + +"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." + +"Too late?" + +"Yes. The forms are closed." + +"You couldn't change it?" + +"Why, I suppose I could, in an extreme emergency. But, dearest, it's all +right. Why be so difficult?" + +"It isn't playing the game, Ban." + +"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?" + +"That's true," she conceded. + +"And my evidence for this is direct. You'll have to trust me and my +professional judgment, Io." + +She sighed, but accepted this, saying, "If he _is_ that kind of a snob +it ought to be published. Suppose he sues for libel?" + +"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. + +"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." + +"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." + +"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?" + +"Yes. Or to buy an old one." + +"I have money of my own, you know," she ventured. + +He fondled her hand. "That isn't even a temptation," he replied. + +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. + +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, + +"Call me Bob but Vote for Marrineal" + +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. + +"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?" + +At The Retreat, after polo, that Saturday, the senior Masters met +Banneker face to face in a hallway, and held him up. + +"Politics is politics. Eh?" he grunted. + +"It's a great game," returned the journalist. + +"Think up that 'call-me-Bob' business yourself?" + +"I got it from a reliable source." + +"Damn lie," remarked Poultney Masters equably. "Did the work, though. +Banneker, why didn't you let me know you were in the market?" + +"In the stock-market? What has that--" + +"_You_ 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." + +"I'll take that from no man--" began Banneker hotly. + +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. + +Meeting Willis Enderby while charge and counter-charge still rilled the +air, Io put the direct query to him: + +"Cousin Billy, what is the truth about the Laird-Masters story?" + +"Made up out of whole cloth," responded Enderby. + +"Who made it up?" + +Comprehension and pity were in his intonation as he replied: "Not +Banneker, I understand. It was passed on to him." + +"Then you don't think him to blame?" she cried eagerly. + +"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." + +"Suppose"--she hesitated--"he had it on what he considered good +authority?" + +"He has never even cited his authority." + +"Couldn't it have been confidential?" she pleaded. + +"Io, do you know his authority? Has he told you?" + +"No." + +Enderby's voice was very gentle as he put his next question. "Do you +trust Banneker, my dear?" + +She met his regard, unflinchingly, but there was a piteous quiver about +the lips which formed the answer. "I have trusted him. Absolutely." + +"Ah; well! I've seen too much good and bad too inextricably mingled in +human nature, to judge on part information." + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The three men were lunching late at Delmonico's, and talking politics, +when Edmonds leaned forward in his seat to look toward the entrance. + +"There's Severance," said he. "What's the matter with him?" + +The professional infuser of excitements approached walking carefully +among the tables. His eyes burned in a white face. + +"On one of his sprees," diagnosed Banneker. "Oh, Severance! Sit down +here." + +"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." + +Marrineal smiled. + +"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." + +"We were talking of--" began Banneker, when the newcomer broke in: + +"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?" + +"If you mean the Territon story," growled Edmonds, "it's rotten." + +"Precisely. I thank you for your g-golden opinion. Rotten. Exactly as +intended." + +"Put a woman's good name on trial and sentence it on hearsay without +appeal or recourse." + +"There is always the danger of going too far along those lines," pointed +out Marrineal judicially. + +"Pardon me, all-wise Proprietor. The d-danger lies in not going far +enough. The frightful p-peril of being found dull." + +"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--" + +"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." + +"Not more than one other would touch it, in its present form," said +Banneker. "It's too raw." + +"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. + +"Beelzebub, god of filth and maggots," snarled Edmonds. + +"Bacchus, god of all true inspiration!" cried Severance. "Waiter, slave +of B-Bacchus, where is my Scotch?" + +"Severance, you're going too far along your chosen line," declared +Banneker bluntly. + +"Yes; we must tone down a little," agreed Marrineal. + +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?" + +"Steady, Severance," warned Edmonds. + +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--" + +Marrineal had risen. Severance turned upon him. + +"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." + +"Are you coming, Mr. Edmonds?" said Marrineal. "You'll sign the check +for me, will you, Mr. Banneker?" + +Left alone with the disciple of Bacchus and Beelzebub, the editor said: + +"Better get home, Severance. Come in to-morrow, will you?" + +"No. I'm q-quite in earnest about resigning. No further use for the +damned j-job now." + +"I never could see why you had any use for it in the first place. Was it +money?" + +"Of course." + +"Oh, I see." + +"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." + +"I'm sorry, Severance," said Banneker honestly. + +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--" + +"Wait a moment, Severance," cut in Banneker sharply. "Don't say anything +that you'll regret. Naming of names--" + +"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?" + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The first person that she met there was Willis Enderby. + +"If you're on this strike case, Cousin Billy," she said, "I'm against +you, and I'm ashamed of you." + +"You probably aren't the former, and you needn't be the latter," he +replied. + +"Aren't you Mr. Vanney's lawyer? And isn't he interested in the strike?" + +"Not openly. It happens that I'm here for the strikers." + +Io stared, incredulous. "For the strikers? You mean that they've +retained you?" + +"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?" + +Io told him. + +"Are you willing to go on the stand?" + +"Certainly; if it will do any good." + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"What is he doing in that galley?" he wondered. + +To her explanation he shook his head. Something more than that, he was +sure. Asking Io's permission he sent for Russell Edmonds. + +"Isn't this a new role for Enderby?" he asked. + +"Not at all. He's been doing this sort of thing always. Usually on the +quiet." + +"The fact that this is far from being on the quiet suggests politics, +doesn't it? Making up to the labor vote?" + +"What on earth should Cousin Billy care for the labor vote?" demanded +Io. "Mr. Laird is dead politically, isn't he?" + +"But Judge Enderby isn't. Mr. Edmonds will tell you that much." + +"True enough. Enderby is a man to be reckoned with. Particularly if--" +Edmonds paused, hesitant. + +"If--" prompted Banneker. "Fire ahead, Pop." + +"If Marrineal should declare in on the race for the governorship, next +fall." + +"Without any state organization? Is that probable?" asked Banneker. + +"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." + +"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?" + +Edmonds turned his fine and serious smile upon her. "Mr. Marrineal's +guiding principle of politics _and_ 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." + +"Do you really think, Mr. Edmonds, that Judge Enderby's help to the +arrested women is a political move?" + +"That's the way it would be interpreted by all the politicians. +Personally, I don't believe it." + +"His sympathies, professional and personal, are naturally on the other +side," pointed out Banneker. + +"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--" + +"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. + +"You control the editorial column, Ban." + +"It's a subject to be handled in the news, not the editorials," he said +hastily. + +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." + +"No. I haven't seen them," answered Banneker. + +"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'." + +"Enderby?" queried Banneker quickly. + +"I seem to detect his fine legal hand in it." + +Banneker's face became moody. "I suppose Haring refused to publish it." + +"No. Haring's for taking it." + +"How is that?" said the editor, astonished. "I thought Haring--" + +"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." + +"Will it appear in to-morrow's paper?" questioned Io. + +"Probably, if it appears at all." + +"Why the 'if'?" said Banneker. "Since Haring has passed it--" + +"There is also Marrineal." + +"Haring sent it to him?" + +"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." + +"Mr. Marrineal won't let it be published?" asked Io. + +"That's my guess," returned the veteran. + +"And mine," added Banneker. + +He felt her eyes of mute appeal fixed on him and read her meaning. + +"All right, Io," he promised quietly. "If Mr. Marrineal won't print it +in advertising, I'll print it as editorial." + +"When?" Io and Edmonds spoke in one breath. + +"Day after to-morrow." + +"That's war," said Edmonds. + +"In a good cause," declared Io proudly. + +"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." + +"Ban!" said Io with brightened regard. + +"Well?" + +"Will you put something at the head of your column for me, if that +editorial appears?" + +"What? Wait! I know. The quotation from the Areopagitica. Is that it?" + +"Yes." + +"Fine! I'll do it." + +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. + +"Mr. Marrineal turned it down. He's got the right. That's all there is +to it," was his version. + +"Not quite," remarked Banneker, and went home to prove it. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +The top one was his editorial on the strikers' cause. + +Across it was blue-penciled the word "Killed." + +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: + +"Would You Let Your Baby Drink Carbolic?" + +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. + +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. + +"Did you kill this?" + +"Yes." Haring got to his feet, white and shaking. "For God's sake, Mr. +Banneker--" + +"I'm not going to hurt you--yet. By what right did you do it?" + +"Orders." + +"Marrineal's?" + +"Yes." + +With no further word, Banneker strode to the owner's office, pushed open +the door, and entered. Marrineal looked up, slightly frowning. + +"Did you kill this editorial?" + +Marrineal's frown changed to a smile. "Sit down, Mr. Banneker." + +"Marrineal, did you kill my editorial?" + +"Isn't your tone a trifle peremptory, for an employee?" + +"It won't take more than five seconds for me to cease to be an +employee," said Banneker grimly. + +"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." + +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?" + +"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." + +"We could have talked it over yesterday." + +"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?" + +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. + +"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?" + +"Yes," said Banneker listlessly. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +"Where's the rest of your pipe?" asked Banneker, stupefied by this +phenomenon. + +"I've resigned," said Edmonds. + +"God! I wish I could," muttered Banneker. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +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. + +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. + +"Banneker, do you know anything of an advertisement by the striking +garment-workers, which The Patriot first accepted and afterward refused +to print?" + +"Yes." + +"Are you at liberty to tell me why?" + +"In confidence." + +"That is implied." + +"Mr. Marrineal ordered it killed." + +"Ah! It was Marrineal himself. The advocate of the Common People! The +friend of Labor!" + +"Admirable campaign material," observed Banneker composedly, "if it were +possible to use it." + +"Which, of course, it isn't; being confidential," Enderby capped the +thought. "I hear that Russell Edmonds has resigned." + +"That is true." + +"In consequence of the rejected advertisement?" + +Banneker sat silent so long that his host began: "Perhaps I shouldn't +have asked that--" + +"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_ haven't +resigned. So you see what manner of man I am," he concluded defiantly. + +"You mean a coward? I don't think it." + +"I wish I were sure!" burst out Banneker. + +"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?" + +"No. Yes; I am. I'd forgotten. That doesn't matter." + +"Apparently not." The lawyer's heavy brows went up, "More serious than +money," he commented. + +Banneker recognized the light of suspicion, comprehension, confirmation +in the keen and fine visage turned upon him. Enderby continued: + +"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." + +"But I'd like to know," said Banneker slowly, "why you don't think me a +yellow dog for not resigning." + +"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." + +"Will he get the nomination?" + +"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." + +"A pleasant prospect for me," gloomed Banneker. "I'll have to fight +you." + +"Go ahead and fight," returned the other heartily. "It won't be the +first time." + +"At least, I want you to know that it'll be fair fight." + +"No 'Junior-called-me-Bob' trick this time?" smiled Enderby. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +Meantime there was Russell Edmonds. He found the veteran cleaning out +his desk preparatory to departure. + +"You can't know how it hurts to see you go, Pop," he said sadly. "What's +your next step?" + +"The Sphere. They want me to do a special series, out around the +country." + +"Aren't they pretty conservative for your ideas?" + +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: + +"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." + +"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: + +"I didn't mean that for you, son." + +"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." + +"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!" + +"Pop," said Banneker, spiritlessly, "what's the use? How do we know we +aren't chasing a rainbow? How do we know people _want_ an honest paper +or would know one if they saw it?" + +"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." + +"All right. I know it. I don't mean it, Pop. I'm not adopting +Marrineal's creed. Not just yet." + +"By the way, Marrineal was asking for you this morning." + +"Was he? I'll look him up. Perhaps he's going to fire me. I wish he +would." + +"Catch him!" grunted the other, reverting to his task. "More likely +going to raise your salary." + +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: + +"I want to talk to you about the future." + +"I'm listening," returned Banneker uncompromisingly. + +"Your ultimate ambition is to own and control a newspaper of your own, +isn't it?" + +"Why do you think that?" + +Marrineal's slow, sparse smile hardly moved his lips. "It's in character +that you should. What else is there for you?" + +"Well?" + +"Have you ever thought of The Patriot?" + +Involuntarily Banneker straightened in his chair. "Is The Patriot in the +market?" + +"Hardly. That isn't what I have in mind." + +"Will you kindly be more explicit?" + +"Mr. Banneker, I intend to be the next governor of this State." + +"I might quote a proverb on that point," returned the editor +unpleasantly. + +"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." + +"I have no doubts as to your financial capacity." + +"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." + +"Judge Enderby?" + +"Exactly." + +"I should think he would be an admirable nominee." + +"As an individual you are at liberty to hold such opinions as you +please. As editor of The Patriot--" + +"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." + +"You are a friend of Judge Enderby." + +"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." + +"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." + +Equally appalled and amused by the enormous egotism of the man thus +suddenly revealed, Banneker studied him in silence. + +"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." + +"To me!" said Banneker, thunderstruck. + +"Provided I am elected governor," said Marrineal. "Which depends +largely--yes, almost entirely--on the elimination of Judge Enderby." + +"What are you asking me to do?" demanded Banneker, genuinely puzzled. + +"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." + +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. + +D. died this morning. Will write. I. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +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 + +"............ that Lady Beauty in whose praise +The voice and hand shake still"-- + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It was not a happy time for the Editor of The Patriot. + +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! + +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. + +"_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?" + +"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." + +"It's Camilla Van Arsdale," said Banneker as the girl left. + +"You've heard from her?" + +"From Mindle who looks after my shack there. He says she's very ill. +I've got to go out there at once." + +"Oh, Ban!" + +"I know, dearest, and after all these endless weeks of separation. But +you wouldn't have me do otherwise. Would you?" + +"Of course not," she said indignantly. "When do you start?" + +"At midnight." + +"And your work?" + +"I'll send my stuff in by wire." + +"How long?" + +"I can't tell until I get there." + +"Ban, you mustn't go," she said with a changed tone. + +"Not go? To Miss Camilla? There's nothing--" + +"I'll go." + +"You!" + +"Why not? If she's seriously ill, she needs a woman, not a man with +her." + +"But--but, Io, you don't even like her." + +"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." + +"I oughtn't to let you," he hesitated. + +"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." + +"You're going to leave to-night?" + +"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." + +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. + +"If her condition is critical I'll wire for you," promised lo. +"Otherwise you mustn't come." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"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--" + +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. + +Mail takes four days to reach Manzanita from New York. + +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. + +"I know that he will come," she wrote. "He must come. It would be too +cruel ... and I know his heart." + +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. + +"This is Mr. Banneker. I must speak to him for just a moment. It's +vital." + +"Very sorry, sir," responded the unmoved voice. "But Judge Enderby's +orders was absloot. Not to be disturbed on any account." + +"Tell him that Mr. Banneker has something of the utmost importance to +say to him before he leaves." + +"Sorry, sir. It'd be as much as my place is worth." + +Raging, Banneker nevertheless managed to control himself. "He is leaving +on a trip to-night, is he not?" + +After some hesitation the voice replied austerely: "I believe he is, +sir. Good-bye." + +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. + +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. + +Yes; the telegram had arrived. In time? No; it was delivered twenty +minutes after the Judge had left for his train. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +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. + +"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. + +"As brave as ever. Stronger, a little, I think." + +"And she--the eyes?" + +"She will be able to see you; but not clearly." + +"How long--" began the man, but his voice broke. He shook in the bitter +heat as if from some inner and deadly chill. + +"Nobody can tell. She hoards her sight." + +"To see me?" he cried eagerly. "Have you told her?" + +"No." + +"Is that wise?" he questioned. "The shock--" + +"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." + +"That is very wonderful," said the stranger, in a hushed voice. Then, +hesitantly, "What shall I do, Io?" + +"Nothing," came the girl's clear answer. "Go to her, that is all." + +Another horse was led forward and the pair rode away through the +glimmering heat. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Io felt the man's tense body, pressed against her as if for support, +convulsed with a tremor which left him powerless. + +"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: + +"Willis!" + +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: + +"Fifteen years! My God, fifteen years!" + +Io ran away into the forest, utterly glad with the joy of which she had +been minister. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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...." + +"I am coming back to you," he said doggedly, at the final moment of +parting. "Sometime, Camilla." + +"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. + +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. + +"How she will sing now!" said Io. + +As they drew near to the station, she put her hand on his horse's +bridle. + +"Did I do wrong to send for you, Cousin Billy?" she asked. + +He turned to her a visage transfigured. + +"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." + +"The rest of her life," he echoed, in a hushed accent of dread. + +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. + +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. + +"Do you know that man?" he asked, whirling upon Io. + +A gray veil seemed to her drawn down over his features. Or was it a mist +of dread upon Io's own vision? + +"I have seen him before," she answered, groping. + +"Who is he?" + +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. + +"He has something to do with The Patriot," she answered steadily. + +"How could The Patriot know of my coming here?' + +"I don't know," said Io. She was deadly pale with a surmise too +monstrous for utterance. + +He put it into words for her. + +"Io, did you tell Errol Banneker that you were sending for me?" + +"Yes." + +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. + +"He couldn't have betrayed me!" cried Io: but, as she spoke, the memory +of other treacheries overwhelmed her. + +The train rumbled in. Enderby stooped and kissed her forehead. + +"My dear," he said gently, "I'm afraid you've trusted him once too +often." + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +For three days Banneker had had no letter from Io. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +Said Mallory of The Ledger, bending over him: + +"Look at Ban, Pop!" + +"I'm looking," gloomed Edmonds. + +"What's behind that smile? Something frozen. What's the matter with +him?" queried the observant Mallory. + +"Too much success." + +"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." + +"Won't make a bit of difference," muttered the veteran. "He's all steel. +Cold steel. Can't touch him." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He chattered on. Never did he talk more brilliantly. + +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 _magnum opus_, 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. + +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? + +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. + +"What's up, Tommy?" + +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. + +Marrineal, for once allowing discomposure to ruffle his +imperturbability, rose to check the exodus. + +"Gentlemen! One moment, if you please. As soon as--" + +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. + +"Edmonds! Pop!" + +The veteran stopped, turning the slow, sad judgment of his eyes upon the +other. + +"What is it?" appealed Banneker. "What's happened? Tell me." + +"Willis Enderby is dead." + +The query, which forced itself from Banneker's lips, was a +self-accusation. "By his own hand?" + +"By yours," answered Edmonds, and strode from the place. + +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. + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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! + +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! + +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. + +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. + +Hold all newspapers from Miss C. until I get there, if you have to +rob mails. E.B. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +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. + +"Howdy, Ban!" + +"Hello, Pete." + +"How's the lady gettin' on?" + +"Not too well." + +"Can't see much of anythin', huh?" + +"No: and never will again." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"And how long will you be with us, Ban?" + +"Oh, I'm likely to be around quite a while yet." + +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. + +"She'll be glad to see you," returned the other. "Only, don't forget, +Pete; not a word about anything except local stuff." + +"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." + +Banneker raised tired eyes and smiled. "Oh, I'm all right," he replied +listlessly. + +"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. + +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: + +"Any mail, Ban?" + +"Yes. Letter from Albany." + +"Let me open it myself," she cried jealously. + +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. + +"Read it slowly, Ban," she commanded softly. + +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. + +Camilla Van Arsdale got up from her couch and walked with confident +footsteps to the piano. + +"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." + +"How would 'silenced' do?" he offered, after studying the line. + +"Beautifully. You're a most amiable poet! Ban, I think your verses are +going to be more famous than my music." + +"Never that," he denied. "It's the music that makes them." + +"Have you heard from Mr. Gaines yet about the essays?" + +"Yes. He's taking them. He wants to print two in each issue and call +them 'Far Perspectives.'" + +"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." + +"Well, you know, the doctor won't give me my release." + +(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.) + +"But when you can, you'll go back and help him, even if I'm not here to +know about it, won't you?" + +"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. + +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. + +Once, when Banneker had brought her a lyric, alive with the sweetness of +youth and love in the great open spaces, she had said: + +"Ban, shall we call it 'Io?'" + +"I don't think it would do," he said with an effort. + +"Where is she?" + +"Traveling in the tropics." + +"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?" + +"Nothing. There's nothing anybody can do." + +The blind woman hesitated. "But you care for her still, don't you, Ban?" + +"Care! Oh, my God!" whispered Banneker. + +"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?" + +"She does." + +"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?" + +"No, Miss Camilla. We haven't quarreled." + +"Then _what_ 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. + +"Io's a rich woman, Miss Camilla," he said desperately. + +"What of it?" + +"How could I ask her to marry a jobless, half-lunged derelict?" + +"_Have_ you asked her?" + +He was silent. + +"Ban, does she know why you're here?" + +"Oh, yes; she knows." + +"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?" + +"She doesn't know that I'm--ill," he said, hating himself for the +necessity of pretense with Camilla Van Arsdale. + +"Then I shall tell her." + +"No," he controverted with finality, "I won't allow it." + +"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." + +"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. + +She groped her way to the piano, and ran her fingers over the keys. +"There is work, anyway," she said with sure serenity. + +"Yes; there's work, thank God!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I have been wanting to see you," he said at once. + +"About Mr. Banneker?" she queried eagerly. + +"No. About The Searchlight." + +"The Searchlight? I don't understand, Mr. Edmonds." + +"Can't we be open with each other, Mrs. Eyre?" + +"Absolutely, so far as I am concerned." + +"Then I want to tell you that you need have no fear as to what The +Searchlight may do." + +"Still I don't understand. Why should I fear it?" + +"The scandal--manufactured, of course--which The Searchlight had cooked +up about you and Mr. Banneker before Mr. Eyre's death." + +"Surely there was never anything published. I should have heard of it." + +"No; there wasn't. Banneker stopped it." + +"Ban?" + +"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?" + +"Never a word." + +"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." + +"Wait," pleaded Io. "How did he stop The Searchlight?" + +"By threatening Bussey with an expose that would have blown him out of +the water. Blackmail, if you like, Mrs. Eyre, and not of the most polite +kind." + +"For me," whispered Io. + +"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." + +"Held Ban up? What for? How could he do that? All this is a riddle to +me, Mr. Edmonds." + +"Do you think you really want to know?" asked the other with a touch of +grimness. "It won't be pleasant hearing." + +"I've got to know. Everything!" + +"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 _his_ gun at Ban. 'Be good, or I'll shoot,' +says he. And there you are!" + +"But what was his gun? And why need he threaten Ban?" + +"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." + +"Why couldn't he resign?" asked Io, white-lipped. + +"If he quit The Patriot he could no longer hold Bussey, and The +Searchlight could print what it chose. You see?" + +"I see," said Io, very low. "Oh, why couldn't I have seen before!" + +"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." + +"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." + +"I'm afraid so," returned the other gently. + +"Do you know what he's doing now?" she demanded. + +"I understand he's back at Manzanita." + +"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." + +"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." + +"To save me," said Io. + +"Not even for that. He owed more to her than to you." + +"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!" + +"He did it, and, when it was too late, he tried to stop it." + +"To stop it?" She looked her startled query at him. "How do you know +that?" + +"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." + +"Telegram? Why a telegram? Wasn't Ban in town?" + +"No. He was down in Jersey. At The Retreat." + +"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?" + +"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." + +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: + +"The one thing I can't bear is that Cousin Billy died, believing that of +Ban." + +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. + +"I wish you'd cry for me, too," he said huskily. "I'm too old." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +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. + +Now, riding back with Banneker, he meditated a final opinion, and out of +that opinion came speech. + +"Mr. Banneker, they ought to give you and me a special niche in the Hall +of Fame," he said. + +A rather wan smile touched briefly Banneker's lips. "I believe that my +ambitions once reached even that far," he said. + +The other reflected upon the implied tragedy of a life, so young, for +which ambition was already in the past tense, as he added: + +"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." + +Banneker made a quick gesture of denial. + +"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." + +Banneker looked up sharply. + +"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." + +"How long?" + +"A matter of weeks. Not more. Banneker, do you believe in a personal +immortality?" + +"I don't know. Do you?" + +"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!" + +He lifted his voice and sent it rolling through the cathedral aisles of +the forest, in the superb finale of the last hymn. + +"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." + +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. + +"And now we'll consider you." + +"Nothing to consider," declared Banneker. + +"Is your professional judgment better than mine?" retorted the other. +"How much weight have you lost since you've been out here?" + +"I don't know." + +"Find out. Don't sleep very well, do you?" + +"Not specially." + +"What do you do at night when you can't sleep? Work?" + +"No." + +"Well?" + +"Think." + +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?" + +"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. + +"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." + +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! + +He was almost at the shack when he noticed that the door stood half +ajar. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Please, Ban!" she said, in a voice so little that it hardly came to his +ears. + +Speech and motion were denied him, in the great, the incredible surprise +of her presence. + +"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. + +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. + +"Hold me close, Ban! Don't ever let me go again! Don't ever let me doubt +again!" + +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. + +"Didn't the Voices tell you that I'd come back, Ban?" she asked. + +He shook his head. "If they did, I couldn't hear them." + +"But they sang to you," she insisted gently. "They never stopped +singing, did they?" + +"No. No. They never stopped singing." + +"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?" + +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: + +"Now you must take me to her." + +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. + +"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?" + +"Do I not!" whispered Ban, turning to kiss the fingers that tightened on +his shoulder. + +"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?" + +"It is enough," he answered with grave happiness. + +"Listen!" exclaimed Io. + +The sound of song, tender and passionate and triumphant, came pulsing +through the silence to meet them as they rode on. + + +THE END + + + + + +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.txt or 15431.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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