“Certainly.”
The other evening papers, more honest than The Evening New Yorker, admitted, though, as it were, regretfully and in an inconspicuous finale to their accounts that the central figure of the sensation was only a reporter. But the fact of his being guest on a yacht was magnified and glorified.
At five o’clock Banneker arrived, having been bailed out after some difficulty, for the police were frightened and ugly, foreseeing that this swift vengeance upon the notorious gang, meted out by a private hand, would throw a vivid light upon their own inefficiency and complaisance. Happily the District Attorney’s office was engaged in one of its periodical feuds with the Police Department over some matter of graft gone astray, and was more inclined to make a cat’s-paw than a victim out of Banneker.
Though inwardly strung to a high pitch, for the police officials had kept him sleepless through the night by their habitual inquisition, Banneker held himself well in hand as he went to the City Desk to report gravely that he had been unable to come earlier.
“So we understand, Mr. Banneker,” said Mr. Greenough, his placid features for once enlivened. “That was a good job you did. I congratulate you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Greenough,” returned Banneker. “I had to do it or get done. And, at that, it wasn’t much of a trick. They were a yellow lot.”
“Very likely: very likely. You’ve handled a gun before.”
“Only in practice.”
“Ever shot anybody before?”
“No, sir.”