That in which he now sought release and distraction was not the _magnum
opus_ of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck, but the work of a less practical and
popular writer, being in fact the "Eve of St. Agnes," by John Keats.
Soothed and dreamy, he put out the lights, climbed to his living
quarters above the office, and fell asleep. It was then eleven-thirty
and his official day had terminated five hours earlier.
At one o'clock he arose and patiently descended the stairs again. Some
one was hammering on the door. He opened without inquiry, which was not
the part of wisdom in that country and at that hour. His pocket-flash
gleamed on a thin young man in a black-rubber coat who, with head and
hands retracted as far as possible from the pouring rain, resembled a
disconsolate turtle with an insufficient carapace.
"I'm Gardner, of the Angelica City Herald," explained the untimely
visitor.
Banneker was surprised. That a reporter should come all the way from the
metropolis of the Southwest to his wreck--he had already established
proprietary interest in it--was gratifying. Furthermore, for reasons of
his own, he was glad to see a journalist. He took him in and lighted up
the office.
"Had to get a horse and ride to Manzanita to interview old Vanney and a
couple of other big guys from the East.
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