“Where were you educated?”
“Nowhere. Wherever I could pick it up.”
“Which means everywhere. Ever read George Borrow?”
“Yes.”
The heavy face of Mr. Gordon lighted up. “Ree-markable! Keep on. He’s a good offset to—to the daily papers. Writing still counts, on The Ledger. Come over and meet Mr. Greenough.”
The city editor unobtrusively studied Banneker out of placid, inscrutable eyes, soft as a dove’s, while he chatted at large about theaters, politics, the news of the day. Afterward the applicant met the Celtic assistant, Mr. Mallory, who broadly outlined for him the technique of the office. With no further preliminaries Banneker found himself employed at fifteen dollars a week, with Monday for his day off and directions to report on the first of the month.
As the day-desk staff was about departing at six o’clock, Mr. Gordon sauntered over to the city desk looking mildly apologetic.
“I practically had to take that young desert antelope on,” said he.
“Too ingenuous to turn down,” surmised the city editor.
“Ingenuous! He’s heir to the wisdom of the ages. And now I’m afraid I’ve made a ghastly mistake.”