Yet his work was never more brilliant and individual.
Having finished his writing, one reeking midnight, he sat, spent, at his
desk, hating the thought of the shut-in place that he called home.
Better to spend the night on a bench in some square, as he had done
often enough in the earlier days. He rose, took his hat, and had reached
the first landing when the steps wavered and faded in front of him and
he found himself clutching for the rail. A pair of hands gripped his
shoulders and held him up.
"What's the matter, Mr. Banneker?" asked a voice.
"God!" muttered Banneker. "I wish I were back on the desert."
"You want a drink," prescribed his volunteer prop.
As his vision and control reestablished themselves, Banneker found
himself being led downstairs and to the nearest bar by young Fentriss
Smith, who ordered two soda cocktails.
Of Smith he knew little except that the office called him "the permanent
twenty-five-dollar man." He was one of those earnest, faithful, totally
uninspired reporters, who can be relied upon implicitly for routine
news, but are constitutionally impotent to impart color and life to any
subject whatsoever. Patiently he had seen younger and newer men overtake
and pass him; but he worked on inexorably, asking for nothing, wearing
the air of a scholar with some distant and abstruse determination in
view.
Pages:
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317