“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.”