“The latest” in young Wickert’s compendium of speech might be the garments adorning his trim person, the current song-hit of a vaudeville to which he had recently contributed his critical attention, or some tidbit of purely local gossip.  Hainer, the plump and elderly accountant, opined that Wickert had received an augmentation of salary, and got an austere frown for his sally.  Evidently Wickert deemed his news to be of special import; he was quite bloated, conversationally.  He now dallied with it.

“Since when have you been taking in disguised millionaires, Mrs. Brashear?”

The presiding genius of the house, divided between professional resentment at even so remotely slurring an implication (for was not the Grove Street house good enough for any millionaire, undisguised!) and human curiosity, requested an explanation.

“I was in Sherry’s restaurant last night,” said the offhand Wickert.

“I didn’t read about any fire there,” said the jocose Hainer, pointing his sally with a wink at Lambert, the art-student.

Wickert ignored the gibe.  Such was the greatness of his tidings that he could afford to.

“Our firm was giving a banquet to some buyers and big folks in the trade.  Private room upstairs; music, flowers, champagne by the case.  We do things in style when we do ’em.  They sent me up after hours with an important message to our Mr. Webler; he was in charge of arrangements.”

“Been promoted to be messenger, ay?” put in Mr. Hainer, chuckling.

“When I came downstairs,” continued the other with only a venomous glance toward the seat of the scorner, “I thought to myself what’s the matter with taking a look at the swells feeding in the big restaurant.  You may not know it, people, but Sherry’s is the ree-churchiest place in Nuh Yawk to eat dinner.  It’s got ’em all beat.  So I stopped at the door and took ’em in.  Swell?  Oh, you dolls!  I stood there trying to work up the nerve to go in and siddown and order a plate of stew or something that wouldn’t stick me more’n a dollar, just to say I’d been dining at Sherry’s, when I looked across the room, and whadda you think?” He paused, leaned forward, and shot out the climactic word, “Banneker!”

“Having his dinner there?” asked the incredulous but fascinated Mrs. Brashear.

“Like he owned the place.  Table to himself, against the wall.  Waiter fussin’ over him like he loved him.  And dressed!  Oh, Gee!”

“Did you speak to him?” asked Lambert.

“He spoke to me,” answered Wickert, dealing in subtle distinctions.  “He was just finishing his coffee when I sighted him.  Gave the waiter haffa dollar.  I could see it on the plate.  There I was at the door, and he said, ‘Why, hello, Wickert.  Come and have a liquor.’  He pronounced it a queer, Frenchy way.  So I said thanks, I’d have a highball.”

“Didn’t he seem surprised to see you there?” asked Hainer.