“What’s this administration got to do with Vanney’s mills? I thought they were in Jersey,” another diner asked.
“So they are, the main ones. But he’s backing some of the local clothing manufacturers, the sweat-shop lot. They’ve been having strikes. That interferes with profits. Uncle wants the good old days of the night-stick and the hurry-up wagon back. He’s even willing to spend a little money on the good cause.”
Io, seated on Banneker’s left, turned to him. “Is that true, Ban?”
“I’ve heard rumors to that effect,” he replied evasively.
“Won’t it put The Patriot in a queer position, to be making common cause with an enemy of labor?”
“It isn’t a question of Horace Vanney, at all,” he declared. “He’s just an incident.”
“When are you going to write your Laird editorial?”
“All written. I’ve got a proof in my pocket.”
She made as if to hold out her hand; but withdrew it. “After dinner,” she said. “The little enclosed porch off the conservatory.”
Amused and confirmatory glances followed them as they withdrew together. But there was no ill-natured commentary. So habituated was their own special set to the status between them that it was accepted with tolerance, even with the good-humored approval with which human nature regards a logical inter-attraction.