“Fortunately it is under control.  The trouble-makers and thugs have been taught a needed lesson.”

“Especially the six-year-old trouble-making thug who was shot through the lungs from behind.”

Mr. Vanney scowled.  “Unfortunate.  And the papers laid unnecessary stress upon that.  Wholly unnecessary.  Most unfair.”

“You would hardly accuse The Ledger, at least, of being unfair to the mill interests.”

“Yes.  The Ledger’s handling, while less objectionable than some of the others, was decidedly unfortunate.”

Banneker gazed at him in stupefaction.  “Mr. Vanney, The Ledger minimized every detail unfavorable to the mills and magnified every one which told against the strikers.  It was only its skill that concealed the bias in every paragraph.”

“You are not over-loyal to your employer, sir,” commented the other severely.

“At least I’m defending the paper against your aspersions,” returned Banneker.

“Most unfair,” pursued Mr. Vanney.  “Why publish such matter at all?  It merely stirs up more discontent and excites hostility against the whole industrial system which has made this country great.  And I give more copy to the newspaper men than any other public man in New York.  It’s rank ingratitude, that’s what it is.”  He meditated upon the injurious matter.  “I suppose we ought to have advertised,” he added pensively.  “Then they’d let us alone as they do the big stores.”

Banneker left the Vanney offices with a great truth illuminating his brain; to wit, that news, whether presented ingenuously or disingenuously, will always and inevitably be unpopular with those most nearly affected.  For while we all read avidly what we can find about the other man’s sins and errors, we all hope, for our own, the kindly mantle of silence.  And because news always must and will stir hostility, the attitude of a public, any part of which may be its next innocent (or guilty) victim, is instinctively inimical.  Another angle of the pariahdom of those who deal in day-to-day history, for Banneker to ponder.

Feeling a strong desire to get away from the troublous environment of print, Banneker was glad to avail himself of Densmore’s invitation to come to The Retreat on the following Monday and try his hand at polo again.  This time he played much better, his mallet work in particular being more reliable.

“You ride like an Indian,” said Densmore to him after the scratch game, “and you’ve got no nerves.  But I don’t see where you got your wrist, except by practice.”

“I’ve had the practice, some time since.”

“But if you’ve only knocked about the field with stable-boys—­”

“That’s the only play I’ve ever had.  But when I was riding range in the desert, I picked up an old stick and a ball of the owner’s, and I’ve chased that ball over more miles of sand and rubble than you’d care to walk.  Cactus plants make very fair goal posts, too; but the sand is tricky going for the ball.”