enus 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.

His first words to Banneker, after his greeting, were: "You are
exceedingly well tailored."

"Does it matter?" asked Banneker, smiling.

"I'm disappointed. I had read into your writing midnight toil and
respectable, if seedy, self-support."

"After the best Grub Street tradition? Park Row has outlived that."

"I know your tailor, but what's your college?" inquired this surprising
man.

Banneker shook his head.

"At least I was right in that. I surmised individual education. Who
taught you to think for yourself?"

"My father."

"It's an uncommon name. You're not a son of Christian Banneker,
perhaps?"

"Yes. Did you know him?"

"A mistaken man. Whoring after strange gods. Strange, sterile, and
disappointing. But a brave soul, nevertheless. Yes; I knew him well.
What did he teach you?"

"He tried to teach me to stand on my own feet and see with my own eyes
and think for myself."

"Ah, yes! With one's own eyes. So much depends upon whither one turns
them. What have you seen in daily journalism?"

"A chance. Possibly a great chance."

"To think for yourself?"

Banneker started, at this ready application of his words to the problem
which was already outlining itself by small, daily limnings in his mind.

"To write for others what you think for yourself?" pursued the editor,
giving sharpness and definition to the outline.

"Or," concluded Mr. Gaines, as his hearer preserved silence, "eventually
to write for others what they think for themselves?" He smiled
luminously. "It's a problem in stress: _x_ = the breaking-point of
honesty. Your father was an absurdly honest man. Those of us who knew
him best honored him."

"Are you doubting my honesty?" inquired Banneker, without resentment or
challenge.

"Why, yes. Anybody's. But hopefully, you understand."

"Or the honesty of the newspaper business?"

A sigh ruffled the closer tendrils of Mr. Gaines's beard. "I have never
been a journalist in the Park Row sense," he said regretfully.
"Therefore I am conscious of solutions of continuity in my views. Park
Row amazes me. It also appalls me. The daily stench that arises fr