If one has the patience. I haven't. Besides, what
chance would _I_ have?'
"None, with the present lot in the Inside Room. You're a heretic. You're
unsound. You've got dangerous ideas--accent on the dangerous. I doubt if
they'd even trust you with a blue pencil. You might inject something
radical into a thirty-head."
"Tommy," said Banneker, "I'm still new at this game. What becomes of
star reporters?"
"Drink," replied Tommy brusquely.
"Rats!" retorted Banneker. "That's guff. There aren't three heavy
drinkers in this office."
"A lot of the best men go that way," persisted Burt. "It's the late
hours and the irregular life, I suppose. Some drift out into other
lines. This office has trained a lot of playwrights and authors and
ad-men."
"But some must stick."
"They play out early. The game is too hard. They get to be hacks. _Or_
permanent desk-men. D'you know Philander Akely?"
"Who is he?"
"Ask me who he _was_ and I'll tell you. He was the brilliant youngster,
the coruscating firework, the--the Banneker of ten years ago. Come into
the den and meet him."
In one of the inner rooms Banneker was introduced to a fragile,
desiccated-looking man languidly engaged in scissoring newspaper after
newspaper which he took from a pile and cast upon the floor after
operation.
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