Did Mr. Banneker (Wickert had by this time attained the "Mr." stage)
always follow up his dinner at Sherry's with a theater?
Usually, if there were an opening. If not he went to the opera or a
concert.
For his part, Wickert liked a little more spice in life. Still, every
feller to his tastes. And Mr. Banneker was sure dressed for the part.
Say--if he didn't mind--who made that full-dress suit?
No; of course he didn't mind. Mertoun made it.
After which Mr. Banneker had been deftly enshrouded in a fur-lined coat,
worthy of a bank president, had crowned these glories with an impeccable
silk hat, and had set forth. Wickert had only to add that he wore in his
coat lapel one of those fancy tuberoses, which he, Wickert, had gone to
the pains of pricing at the nearest flower shop immediately after
leaving Banneker. A dollar apiece! No, he had not accepted the offer of
a lift, being doubtful upon the point of honor as to whether he would be
expected to pay a _pro rata_ of the taxi charge. They, the assembled
breakfast company, had his permission to call him, Mr. Wickert, a goat
if Mr. Banneker wasn't the swellest-looking guy he had anywhere seen on
that memorable evening.
Nobody called Mr. Wickert a goat. But Mr. Hainer sniffed and said:
"And him a twenty-five-dollar-a-week reporter!"
"Perhaps he has private means," suggested little Miss Westlake, who had
her own reasons for suspecting this: reasons bolstered by many and
frequent manuscripts, turned over to her for typing, recast, returned
for retyping, and again, in many instances, re-recast and re-retyped,
the result of the sweating process being advantageous to their literary
quality.
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