Interesting ones, however."
"How much could I make by magazine writing?" asked Banneker abruptly.
"Heaven alone knows. Less than you need, I should say, at first. How
much do you need?"
"My space bill last week was one hundred and twenty-one dollars. I
filled 'em up on Sunday specials."
"And you need that?"
"It's all gone," grinned Banneker boyishly.
"As between a safe one hundred dollars-plus, and a highly speculative
nothing-and-upwards, how could any prudent person waver?" queried Mr.
Gaines as he shook hands in farewell.
For the first time in the whole unusual interview, Banneker found
himself misliking the other's tone, particularly in the light emphasis
placed upon the word prudent. Banneker did not conceive kindly of
himself as a prudent person.
Back at the office, Banneker got out the story of which he had spoken to
Mr. Gaines, and read it over. It seemed to him good, and quite in the
tradition of The New Era. It was polite, polished, discreet, and, if not
precisely subtle, it dealt with interests and motives lying below the
obvious surfaces of life. It had amused Banneker to write it; which is
not to say that he spared laborious and conscientious effort. The New
Era itself amused him, with its air of well-bred aloofness from the
flatulent romanticism which filled the more popular magazines of the day
with duke-like drummers or drummer-like dukes, amiable criminals and
brisk young business geniuses, possessed of rather less moral sense than
the criminals, for its heroes, and for its heroines a welter of
adjectives exhaling an essence of sex.
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