ed,
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 wo