“Yes. Or to buy an old one.”
“I have money of my own, you know,” she ventured.
He fondled her hand. “That isn’t even a temptation,” he replied.
But it was. For a paper of his own was farther away from him than it had ever been. That morning he had received his statement from his broker. To date his losses on Union Thread were close to ninety thousand dollars.
Who shall measure the spreading and seeding potentialities of a thistle-down or a catchy phrase? Within twenty-four hours after the appearance of Banneker’s editorial, the apocryphal boast of Mayor Laird to his wife had become current political history. Current? Rampant, rather. Messenger boys greeted each other with “Dearie, Mr. Masters calls me Bob.” Brokers on ‘Change shouted across a slow day’s bidding, “What’s your cute little pet name? Mine’s Bobbie.” Huge buttons appeared with miraculous celerity in the hands of the street venders inscribed,
“Call me Bob but Vote for Marrineal”
Vainly did Judge Enderby come out with a statement to the press, declaring the whole matter a cheap and nasty fabrication, and challenging The Patriot to cite its authority. The damage already done was irreparable. Sighting Banneker at luncheon a few days later, Horace Vanney went so far as to cross the room to greet and congratulate him.
“A master-stroke,” he said, pressing Banneker’s hand with his soft palm. “We’re glad to have you with us. Won’t you call me up and lunch with me soon?”
At The Retreat, after polo, that Saturday, the senior Masters met Banneker face to face in a hallway, and held him up.
“Politics is politics. Eh?” he grunted.