ollars a week, plus his own small
income, which all went for "extras," had been simple, at Mrs.
Brashear's. To live on fifty at the Regalton was much more of a problem.
Banneker discovered that he was a natural spender. The discovery caused
him neither displeasure nor uneasiness. He confidently purposed to have
money to spend; plenty of it, as a mere, necessary concomitant to other
things that he was after. Good reporters on space, working moderately,
made from sixty to seventy-five dollars a week. Banneker set himself a
mark of a hundred dollars. He intended to work very hard ... if Mr.
Greenough would give him a chance.

Mr. Greenough's distribution of the day's news continued to be
distinctly unfavorable to the new space-man. The better men on the staff
began to comment on the city desk's discrimination. Banneker had, for a
time, shone in heroic light: his feat had been honorable, not only to
The Ledger office, but to the entire craft of reporting. In the
investigation he had borne himself with unexceptionable modesty and
equanimity. That he should be "picked on" offended that generous _esprit
de corps_ which was natural to the office. Tommy Burt was all for
referring the matter to Mr. Gordon.

"You mind your own business, Tommy," said Banneker placidly. "Our friend
the Joss will stick his foot into a gopher hole yet."

The assignment that afforded Banneker his chance was of the most
unpromising. An old builder, something of a local character over in the
Corlears Hook vicinity, had died. The Ledger, Mr. Greenough informed
Banneker, in his dry, polite manner, wanted "a sufficient obit" of the
deceased. Banneker went to the queer, decrepit frame cottage at the
address given, and there found a group of old Sam Corpenshire's
congeners, in solemn conclave over the dead. They welcomed the reporter,
and gave him a ceremonial drink of whiskey, highly superior whiskey.
They were glad that he had come to write of their dead friend. If ever a
man deserved a good write-up, it was Sam Corpenshire. From one mouth to
another they passed the word of his shrewd dealings, of his good-will to
his neighbors, of his ripe judgment, of his friendliness to all sound
things and sound men, of his shy, sly charities, of the thwarted
romance, which, many years before, had left him lonely but unembittered;
and out of it Banneker, with pen too slow for his eager will, wove not a
two-stick obit, but a rounded column shot through with lights that