Already his space bills were the largest,
consistently, on the staff, due chiefly to his indefatigable industry in
devoting every spare office hour to writing his "Eban" sketches, now
paid at sixteen dollars a column, and Sunday "specials." He might push
this up a little, but not much.
From the magazine field, expectations were meager in the immediate
sense. True, The Bon Vivant had accepted the story which The Era
rejected; but it had paid only seventy-five dollars. Banneker did not
care to go farther on that path. Aside from the unsatisfactory return,
his fastidiousness revolted from being identified with the output of a
third-class and flashy publication. Whatever The Ledger's shortcomings,
it at least stood first in its field. But was there any future for him
there, other than as a conspicuously well-paid reporter? In spite of the
critical situation which his story of the Sippiac riots had brought
about, he knew that he was safe as long as he wished to stay.
"You're too valuable to lose," said Tommy Burt, swinging his pudgy legs
over Banneker's desk, having finished one of his mirthful stories of a
row between a wine agent and a theatrical manager over a doubly reserved
table in a conspicuous restaurant. "Otherwise--phutt! But they'll be
very careful what kind of assignments they hand over to your reckless
hands in future.
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