Banneker kept his guest awake beyond the limits of decent hospitality, asking him questions.
The reporter, constantly more interested in this unexpected find of a real personality in an out-of-the-way minor station of the high desert, meditated a character study of “the hero of the wreck,” but could not quite contrive any peg whereon to hang the wreath of heroism. By his own modest account, Banneker had been competent but wholly unpicturesque, though the characters in his sketch, rude and unformed though it was, stood out clearly. As to his own personal history, the agent was unresponsive. At length the guest, apologizing for untimely weariness, it being then 3.15 A.M., yawned his way to the portable shack.
He slept heavily, except for a brief period when the rain let up. In the morning—which term seasoned newspaper men apply to twelve noon and the hour or two thereafter—he inquired of Banneker, “Any tramps around here?”
“No,” answered the agent, “Not often. There were a pair yesterday morning, but they went on.”
“Some one was fussing around the place about first light. I was too sleepy to get up. I yipped and they beat it. I don’t think they got inside.”
Banneker investigated. Nothing was missing from within the shack. But outside he made a distressing discovery.
His molasses pie was gone.