n. 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