“His name is Marrineal,” replied the veteran. “He dines here occasionally alone. Don’t know what he does.”
“He’s been listening in.”
“Curious thing; he often does.”
As they parted at the door, Edmonds said paternally:
“Remember, young fellow, a Park Row reputation is written on glass with a wet finger. It doesn’t last during the writing.”
“And only dims the glass,” said Banneker reflectively.
CHAPTER VIII
Heat, sudden, savage, and oppressive, bore down upon the city early that spring, smiting men in their offices, women in their homes, the horses between the shafts of their toil, so that the city was in danger of becoming disorganized. The visitation developed into the big story of successive days. It was the sort of generalized, picturesque “fluff-stuff” matter which Banneker could handle better than his compeers by sheer imaginative grasp and deftness of presentation. Being now a writer on space, paid at the rate of eight dollars a column of from thirteen to nineteen hundred words, he found the assignment profitable and the test of skill quite to his taste. Soft job though it was in a way, however, the unrelenting pressure of the heat and the task of finding, day after day, new phases and fresh phrases in which to deal with it, made inroads upon his nerves.