Bells rang, the wheel began to churn, and Banneker, falling asleep in his berth with a vivifying breeze blowing across him, awoke in broad daylight to a view of sparkling little waves which danced across his vision to smack impudently the flanks of the speeding craft.
“We’ll be in by noon,” was Smith’s greeting as they met on the companionway for a swim.
“What do you do it for?” asked Banneker, seated at the breakfast table, with an appetite such as he had not known for weeks.
“Do what?”
“Two men’s work at twenty-five per for The Ledger?”
“Training.”
“Are you going to stick to the business?”
“The family,” explained Smith, “own a newspaper in Toledo. It fell to them by accident. Our real business is manufacturing farm machinery, and none of us has ever tried or thought of manufacturing newspapers. So they wished on me the job of learning how.”
“Do you like it?”
“Not particularly. But I’m going through with it.”