“Dried up, played out, and given a measly thirty-five a week as hopper-feeder for the editorial room,” he announced. “And he was the star man of his time.”
“That’s pretty rotten treatment for him, then,” said Banneker indignantly.
“Not a bit of it. He isn’t worth what he gets. Most offices would have chucked him out on the street.”
“What was his trouble?”
“Nothing in particular. Just wore his machine out. Everything going out, nothing coming in. He spun out enough high-class copy to keep the ordinary reporter going for a life-time; but he spun it out too fast. Nothing left. The tragedy of it is that he’s quite happy.”
“Then it isn’t a tragedy at all.”
“Depends on whether you take the Christian or the Buddhist point of view. He’s found his Nirvana in checker problems and collecting literature about insignia. Write? I don’t suppose he’d want to if he could. ‘There but for the grace of God goes’—you or I. I think the facilis descensus to the gutter is almost preferable.”
“So you’ve shown him to me as a dreadful warning, have you, Tommy?” mused Banneker aloud.
“Get out of it, Ban; get out of it.”
“Why don’t you get out of it yourself?”