The managing editor looked up, alert, from his knuckle-tapping. “From bank president to hobo. Was his bank an important one?”
“The biggest in a medium-sized city.”
“And does that suggest nothing to you, as a prospective newspaper man?”
“What? Write him up?”
“It would make a fairly sensational story.”
“I couldn’t do that. He was my friend. He wouldn’t like it.”
Mr. Gordon addressed his wedding-ring finger which was looking a bit scarified. “Such an article as that, properly done, would go a long way toward getting you a chance on this paper—Sit down, Mr. Banneker.”
“You and I,” said Banneker slowly and in the manner of the West, “can’t deal.”
“Yes, we can.” The managing editor threw his steel blade on the desk. “Sit down, I tell you. And understand this. If you come on this paper—I’m going to turn you over to Mr. Greenough, the city editor, with a request that he give you a trial—you’ll be expected to subordinate every personal interest and advantage to the interests and advantages of the paper, except your sense of honor and fair-play. We don’t ask you to give that up; and if you do give it up, we don’t want you at all. What have you done besides be a hobo?”
“Railroading. Station-agent.”