But the latter nodded intelligently, and remarked: “If he’s money-crazy you’ve got him, anyway, sooner or later. And now that he’s woman-crazy, too—”
“You’ll never understand just how sane Mr. Banneker is,” broke in Marrineal coldly. He was a very sane man, himself.
“Well, a lot of the sane ones get stung on the Street,” moralized Ives. “I guess the only way to beat that game is to get crazy and take all the chances. Mr. Banneker stands to drop half a year’s salary in U.T. alone unless there’s a turn.”
Marrineal delivered another well-thought-out bit of wisdom. “If I’m any judge, he wants a paper of his own. Well ... give me three years more of him and he can have it. But I don’t think it’ll make much headway against The Patriot, then.”
“Three years? Bussey and The Searchlight ought to hold him that long. Unless, of course, he gets over his infatuation in the meantime.”
“In that case,” surmised Marrineal, eyeing him with distaste, “I suppose you think that he would equally lose interest in protecting her from The Searchlight.”
“Well, what’s a woman to expect!” said Ives blandly, and took his dismissal for the day.
It was only recently that Ives had taken to coming to The Patriot office. No small interest and conjecture were aroused among the editorial staff as to his exact status, stimulus to gossip being afforded by the rumor that he had been, from Marrineal’s privy purse, shifted to the office payroll. Russell Edmonds solved and imparted the secret to Banneker.
“Ives? Oh, he’s the office sandbag.”
“Translate, Pop. I don’t understand.”