Him, Mr. Greenough, impassive joss of the city desk, regarded with a chill eye.  “One reporter visiting another gets into a muss and shoots up some riverside toughs,” he remarked contemptuously.  “You can hardly expect our public to get greatly excited over that.  Are we going into the business of exploiting our own cubs?”

Thereupon there was sharp discussion to which Mr. Gordon put an end by remarking that the evening papers would doubtless give them a lead; meantime they could get Banneker’s version.

First to come in was The Evening New Yorker, the most vapid of all the local prints, catering chiefly to the uptown and shopping element.  Its heading half-crossed the page proclaiming “Guest of Yachtsman Shoots Down Thugs.”  Nowhere in the article did it appear that Banneker had any connection with the newspaper world.  He was made to appear as a young Westerner on a visit to the yacht of a millionaire business man, having come on from his ranch in the desert, and presumptively—­to add the touch of godhead—­a millionaire himself.

“The stinking liars!” said Andreas.

“That settles it,” declared Mr. Gordon.  “We’ll give the facts plainly and without sensationalism; but all the facts.”

“Including Mr. Banneker’s connection here?” inquired Mr. Greenough.

“Certainly.”

The other evening papers, more honest than The Evening New Yorker, admitted, though, as it were, regretfully and in an inconspicuous finale to their accounts that the central figure of the sensation was only a reporter.  But the fact of his being guest on a yacht was magnified and glorified.

At five o’clock Banneker arrived, having been bailed out after some difficulty, for the police were frightened and ugly, foreseeing that this swift vengeance upon the notorious gang, meted out by a private hand, would throw a vivid light upon their own inefficiency and complaisance.  Happily the District Attorney’s office was engaged in one of its periodical feuds with the Police Department over some matter of graft gone astray, and was more inclined to make a cat’s-paw than a victim out of Banneker.

Though inwardly strung to a high pitch, for the police officials had kept him sleepless through the night by their habitual inquisition, Banneker held himself well in hand as he went to the City Desk to report gravely that he had been unable to come earlier.

“So we understand, Mr. Banneker,” said Mr. Greenough, his placid features for once enlivened.  “That was a good job you did.  I congratulate you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Greenough,” returned Banneker.  “I had to do it or get done.  And, at that, it wasn’t much of a trick.  They were a yellow lot.”

“Very likely:  very likely.  You’ve handled a gun before.”

“Only in practice.”

“Ever shot anybody before?”

“No, sir.”

“How does it feel?” inquired the city editor, turning his pale eyes on the other and fussing nervously with his fingers.