“Depends on whether you take the Christian or the Buddhist point of view.  He’s found his Nirvana in checker problems and collecting literature about insignia.  Write?  I don’t suppose he’d want to if he could.  ’There but for the grace of God goes’—­you or I. I think the facilis descensus to the gutter is almost preferable.”

“So you’ve shown him to me as a dreadful warning, have you, Tommy?” mused Banneker aloud.

“Get out of it, Ban; get out of it.”

“Why don’t you get out of it yourself?”

“Inertia.  Or cowardice.  And then, I haven’t come to the turning-point yet.  When I do reach it, perhaps it’ll be too late.”

“What do you reckon the turning-point?”

“As long as you feel the excitement of the game,” explained this veteran of thirty, “you’re all right.  That will keep you going; the sense of adventure, of change, of being in the thick of things.  But there’s an underlying monotony, so they tell me:  the monotony of seeing things by glimpses, of never really completing a job, of being inside important things, but never of them.  That gets into your veins like a clogging poison.  Then you’re through.  Quit it, Ban, before it’s too late.”

“No.  I’m not going to quit the game.  It’s my game.  I’m going to beat it.”

“Maybe.  You’ve got the brains.  But I think you’re too stiff in the backbone.  Go-to-hell-if-you-don’t-like-the-way-I-do-it may be all right for a hundred-dollar-a-week job; but it doesn’t get you a managing editorship at fifteen to twenty thousand.  Even if it did, you’d give up the go-to-hell attitude as soon as you landed, for fear it would cost you your job and be too dear a luxury.”

“All right, Mr. Walpole,” laughed Banneker.  “When I find what my price is, I’ll let you know.  Meantime I’ll think over your well-meant advice.”

If the normal way of advancement were closed to him in The Ledger office because of his unsound and rebellious attitude on social and labor questions, there might be better opportunities in other offices, Banneker reflected.

Before taking any step he decided to talk over the general situation with that experienced campaigner, Russell Edmonds.  Him and his diminutive pipe he found at Katie’s, after most of the diners had left.  The veteran nodded when Banneker told him of his having reached what appeared to be a cul-de-sac.

“It’s about time you quit,” said Edmonds vigorously.

“You’ve changed your mind?”

The elder nodded between two spirals of smoke which gave him the appearance of an important godling delivering oracles through incense.  “That was a dam’ bad story you wrote of the Sippiac killings.”

“I didn’t write it.”

“Didn’t uh?  You were there.”

“My story went to the office cat.”

“What was the stuff they printed?  Amalgamated Wire Association?”

“No.  Machine-made rewrite in the office.”