“A couple of centuries ago,” stated Banneker positively. “Forty a week wouldn’t keep me alive now.”
“You could write a lot of specials. Or do outside work.”
“Perhaps. But what would a desk lead to?
“City editor. Night city editor. Night editor. Managing editor at fifteen thou.”
“After ten years. If one has the patience. I haven’t. Besides, what chance would I have?’
“None, with the present lot in the Inside Room. You’re a heretic. You’re unsound. You’ve got dangerous ideas—accent on the dangerous. I doubt if they’d even trust you with a blue pencil. You might inject something radical into a thirty-head.”
“Tommy,” said Banneker, “I’m still new at this game. What becomes of star reporters?”
“Drink,” replied Tommy brusquely.
“Rats!” retorted Banneker. “That’s guff. There aren’t three heavy drinkers in this office.”
“A lot of the best men go that way,” persisted Burt. “It’s the late hours and the irregular life, I suppose. Some drift out into other lines. This office has trained a lot of playwrights and authors and ad-men.”