“But some must stick.”
“They play out early. The game is too hard. They get to be hacks. Or permanent desk-men. D’you know Philander Akely?”
“Who is he?”
“Ask me who he was and I’ll tell you. He was the brilliant youngster, the coruscating firework, the—the Banneker of ten years ago. Come into the den and meet him.”
In one of the inner rooms Banneker was introduced to a fragile, desiccated-looking man languidly engaged in scissoring newspaper after newspaper which he took from a pile and cast upon the floor after operation. The clippings he filed in envelopes. A checkerboard lay on the table beside him.
“Do you play draughts, Mr. Banneker?” he asked in a rumbling bass.
“Very little and very poorly.”
The other sighed. “It is pure logic, in the form of contest. Far more so than chess, which is merely sustained effort of concentration. Are you interested in emblemology?”
“I’m afraid I know almost nothing of it,” confessed Banneker.
Akely sighed again, gave Banneker a glance which proclaimed an utter lack of interest, and plunged his shears into the editorial vitals of the Springfield Republican. Tommy Burt led the surprised Banneker away.