At one o’clock he arose and patiently descended the stairs again.  Some one was hammering on the door.  He opened without inquiry, which was not the part of wisdom in that country and at that hour.  His pocket-flash gleamed on a thin young man in a black-rubber coat who, with head and hands retracted as far as possible from the pouring rain, resembled a disconsolate turtle with an insufficient carapace.

“I’m Gardner, of the Angelica City Herald,” explained the untimely visitor.

Banneker was surprised.  That a reporter should come all the way from the metropolis of the Southwest to his wreck—­he had already established proprietary interest in it—­was gratifying.  Furthermore, for reasons of his own, he was glad to see a journalist.  He took him in and lighted up the office.

“Had to get a horse and ride to Manzanita to interview old Vanney and a couple of other big guys from the East.  My first story’s on the wire,” explained the newcomer offhand.  “I want some local-color stuff for my second day follow-up.”

“It must be hard to do that,” said Banneker interestedly, “when you haven’t seen any of it yourself.”

“Patchwork and imagination,” returned the other wearily.  “That’s what I get special rates for.  Now, if I’d had your chance, right there on the spot, with the whole stage-setting around one—­Lordy!  How a fellow could write that!”

“Not so easy,” murmured the agent.  “You get confused.  It’s a sort of blur, and when you come to put it down, little things that aren’t really important come up to the surface—­”

“Put it down?” queried the other with a quick look.  “Oh, I see.  Your report for the company.”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking of that.”

“Do you write other things?” asked the reporter carelessly.

“Oh, just foolery.”  The tone invited—­at least it did not discourage—­further inquiry.  Mr. Gardner was bored.  Amateurs who “occasionally write” were the bane of him who, having a signature of his own in the leading local paper, represented to the aspiring mind the gilded and lofty peaks of the unattainable.  However he must play this youth as a source of material.

“Ever try for the papers?”

“Not yet.  I’ve thought maybe I might get a chance sometime as a sort of local correspondent around here,” was the diffident reply.

Gardner repressed a grin.  Manzanita would hardly qualify as a news center.  Diplomacy prompted him to state vaguely that there was always a chance for good stuff locally.

“On a big story like this,” he added, “of course there’d be nothing doing except for the special man sent out to cover it.”

“No.  Well, I didn’t write my—­what I wrote, with any idea of getting it printed.”

The newspaper man sighed wearily, sighed like a child and lied like a man of duty.  “I’d like to see it.”

Without a trace of hesitation or self-consciousness Banneker said, “All right,” and, taking his composition from its docket, motioned the other to the light.  Mr. Gardner finished and turned the first sheet before making any observation.  Then he bent a queer look upon Banneker and grunted: