sixteen dollars a column, and Sunday "specials." He might push
this up a little, but not much.

From the magazine field, expectations were meager in the immediate
sense. True, The Bon Vivant had accepted the story which The Era
rejected; but it had paid only seventy-five dollars. Banneker did not
care to go farther on that path. Aside from the unsatisfactory return,
his fastidiousness revolted from being identified with the output of a
third-class and flashy publication. Whatever The Ledger's shortcomings,
it at least stood first in its field. But was there any future for him
there, other than as a conspicuously well-paid reporter? In spite of the
critical situation which his story of the Sippiac riots had brought
about, he knew that he was safe as long as he wished to stay.

"You're too valuable to lose," said Tommy Burt, swinging his pudgy legs
over Banneker's desk, having finished one of his mirthful stories of a
row between a wine agent and a theatrical manager over a doubly reserved
table in a conspicuous restaurant. "Otherwise--phutt! But they'll be
very careful what kind of assignments they hand over to your reckless
hands in future. You mustn't throw expensive and brittle conventions at
the editor's head. They smash."

"And the fragments come back and cut. I know. But what does it all lead
to, Tommy?"

"Depends on which way you're going."

"To the top, naturally."

"From anybody else that would sound blatant, Ban," returned Tommy
admiringly. "Somehow you get away with it. Are you as sincere as you
act?"

"In so far as my intentions go. Of course, I may trip up and break
myself in two."

"No. You'll always fall light. There's a buoyancy about you.... But what
about coming to the end of the path and finding nowhere else to
proceed?"

"Paragon of wisdom, you have stated the situation. Now produce the
answer."

"More money?" inquired Tommy.

"More money. More opportunity."

"Then you've got to aim at the executive end. Begin by taking a
copy-desk."

"At forty a week?"

"It isn't so long ago that twenty-five looked pretty big to you, Ban."

"A couple of centuries ago," stated Banneker positively. "Forty a week
wouldn't keep me alive now."

"You could write a lot of specials. Or do outside work."

"Perhaps. But what would a desk lead to?

"City editor. Night city editor. Night editor. Managing editor at
fifteen thou."

"After ten years. If one has the patience. I haven't. Besides, what
cha