“Once, maybe,” contributed Tommy Burt. “Twice, perhaps. But I wouldn’t want to crowd too much on him.”
“Greenough won’t. He’s wise in the ways of marvelous and unlicked cubs,” said Decker.
“Why? What do you think Banneker would do?” asked Mallory curiously, addressing Burt.
“If he got an assignment too rich for his stomach? Well, speaking unofficially and without special knowledge, I’d guess that he’d handle it to a finish, and then take his very smart and up-to-date hat and perform a polite adieu to Mr. Greenough and all the works of The Ledger city room.”
A thin, gray, somnolent elder at the end of the table, whose nobly cut face was seared with lines of physical pain endured and outlived, withdrew a very small pipe from his mouth and grunted.
“The Venerable Russell Edmonds has the floor,” said Tommy Burt in a voice whose open raillery subtly suggested an underlying affection and respect. “He snorts, and in that snort is sublimated the wisdom and experience of a ripe ninety years on Park Row. Speak, O Compendium of all the—”
“Shut up, Tommy,” interrupted Edmonds. He resumed his pipe, gave it two anxious puffs, and, satisfied of its continued vitality, said:
“Banneker, uh? Resign, uh? You think he would?”
“I think so.”
“Does he think so?”