Chameleons."
"And you think it affects them?"
"How can it help? There's a slow poison in writing one way when you
believe another."
"And that's part of the dirt-eating?"
"Well, yes. Not so obvious as some of the other kinds. Those hurt your
pride, mostly. This kind hurts your self-respect."
"But where does it get you, all this business?" asked Banneker reverting
to his first query.
"I'm fifty-two years old," replied Edmonds quietly.
Banneker stared. "Oh, I see!" he said presently. "And you're considered
a success. Of course you _are_ a success."
"On Park Row. Would you like to be me? At fifty-two?"
"No, I wouldn't," said Banneker with a frankness which brought a faint
smile to the other man's tired face. "Yet you've got where you started
for, haven't you?"
"Perhaps I could answer that if I knew where I started for or where I've
got to."
"Put it that you've got what you were after, then."
"No's the answer. Upper-case No. I want to get certain things over to
the public intelligence. Maybe I've got one per cent of them over. Not
more."
"That's something. To have a public that will follow you even part
way--"
"Follow me? Bless you; they don't know me except as a lot of print that
they occasionally read.
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