"The Venerable Russell Edmonds has the floor," said Tommy Burt in a
voice whose open raillery subtly suggested an underlying affection and
respect. "He snorts, and in that snort is sublimated the wisdom and
experience of a ripe ninety years on Park Row. Speak, O Compendium of
all the--"
"Shut up, Tommy," interrupted Edmonds. He resumed his pipe, gave it two
anxious puffs, and, satisfied of its continued vitality, said:
"Banneker, uh? Resign, uh? You think he would?"
"I think so."
"Does _he_ think so?"
"That's my belief."
"He won't," pronounced the veteran with finality. "They never do. They
chafe. They strain. They curse out the job and themselves. They say it
isn't fit for any white man. So it isn't, the worst of it. But they
stick. If they're marked for it, they stick."
"Marked for it?" murmured Glidden.
"The ink-spot. The mark of the beast. I've got it. You've got it,
Glidden, and you, McHale. Mallory's smudged with it. Tommy thinks it's
all over him, but it isn't. He'll end between covers. Fiction, like as
not," he added with a mildly contemptuous smile. "But this young
Banneker; it's eaten into him like acid."
"Do you know him, Pop?" inquired McHale.
"Never saw him. Don't have to. I've read his stuff.
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