hich 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