“I shall consult with Mr. Gordon about this,” said Mr. Greenough, becoming joss-like again.  “I hardly think—­” But what it was that he hardly thought, the subject of his animadversions did not then or subsequently ascertain, for he was dismissed in the middle of the sentence with a slow, complacent nod.

Loss of his place, had it promptly followed, would not have dismayed the rebel.  It did not follow.  Nothing followed.  Nothing, that is, out of the ordinary run.  Mr. Gordon said no word.  Mr. Greenough made no reference to the resignation.  Tommy Burt, to whom Banneker had confided his action, was of opinion that the city desk was merely waiting “to hand you something so raw that you’ll have to buck it; something that not even Joe Bullen would take.”  Joe Bullen, an undertaker’s assistant who had drifted into journalism through being a tipster, was The Ledger’s “keyhole reporter” (unofficial).

“The joss is just tricky enough for that,” said Tommy.  “He’ll want to put you in the wrong with Gordon.  You’re a pet of the boss’s.”

“Don’t blame Greenough,” said Banneker.  “If you were on the desk you wouldn’t want reporters that wouldn’t take orders.”

Van Cleve, oldest in standing of any of the staff, approached Banneker with a grave face and solemn warnings.  To leave The Ledger was to depart forever from the odor of journalistic sanctity.  No other office in town was endurable for a gentleman.  Other editors treated their men like muckers.  The worst assignment given out from The Ledger desk was a perfumed cinch in comparison with what the average city room dealt out.  And he gave a formidable sketch of the careers (invariably downhill) of reckless souls who had forsaken the true light of The Ledger for the false lures which led into outer and unfathomable darkness.  By this system of subtly threatened excommunication had The Ledger saved to itself many a good man who might otherwise have gone farther and not necessarily fared worse.  Banneker was not frightened.  But he did give more than a thought to the considerate standards and generous comradeship of the office.  Only—­was it worth the price in occasional humiliation?

Sitting, idle at his desk in one of the subsequent periods of penance, he bethought him of the note on the stationery of The New Era Magazine, signed, “Yours very truly, Richard W. Gaines.”  Perhaps this was opportunity beckoning.  He would go to see the Great Gaines.

The Great Gaines received him with quiet courtesy.  He was a stubby, thick, bearded man who produced an instant effect of entire candor.  So peculiar and exotic was this quality that it seemed to set him apart from the genus of humankind in an aura of alien and daunting honesty.  Banneker recalled hearing of outrageous franknesses from his lips, directed upon small and great, and, most amazingly, accepted without offense, because of the translucent purity of the medium through which, as it were, the inner prophet had spoken.  Besides, he was usually right.