adversions 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 g