Mr. Gordon played a thoughtful tattoo upon his fleshy knuckles with the
letter-opener. "Nothing. Aren't you satisfied?"
"No. Are you?"
"You've had your raise, and fairly early. Unless you had been worth it,
you wouldn't have had it."
"Am I doing what you expected of me?"
"Not exactly. But you're developing into a sure, reliable reporter."
"A routine man," commented Banneker.
"After all, the routine man is the backbone of the office." Mr. Gordon
executed a fantasia on his thumb. "Would you care to try a desk job?" he
asked, peering at Banneker over his glasses.
"I'd rather run a trolley car. There's more life in it."
"Do you _see_ life, in your work, Mr. Banneker?"
"See it? I feel it. Sometimes I think it's going to flatten me out like
a steam-roller."
"Then why not write it?"
"It isn't news: not what I see."
"Perhaps not. Perhaps it's something else. But if it's there and we can
get a gleam of it into the paper, we'll crowd news out to make a place
for it. You haven't been reading The Ledger I'm afraid."
"Like a Bible."
"Not to good purpose, then. What do you think of Tommy Burt's stuff?"
"It's funny; some of it. But I couldn't do it to save my job."
"Nobody can do it but Burt, himself. Possibly you could learn something
from it, though.
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