The clippings he filed in envelopes. A checkerboard lay on
the table beside him.
"Do you play draughts, Mr. Banneker?" he asked in a rumbling bass.
"Very little and very poorly."
The other sighed. "It is pure logic, in the form of contest. Far more so
than chess, which is merely sustained effort of concentration. Are you
interested in emblemology?"
"I'm afraid I know almost nothing of it," confessed Banneker.
Akely sighed again, gave Banneker a glance which proclaimed an utter
lack of interest, and plunged his shears into the editorial vitals of
the Springfield Republican. Tommy Burt led the surprised Banneker away.
"Dried up, played out, and given a measly thirty-five a week as
hopper-feeder for the editorial room," he announced. "And he was the
star man of his time."
"That's pretty rotten treatment for him, then," said Banneker
indignantly.
"Not a bit of it. He isn't worth what he gets. Most offices would have
chucked him out on the street."
"What was his trouble?"
"Nothing in particular. Just wore his machine out. Everything going out,
nothing coming in. He spun out enough high-class copy to keep the
ordinary reporter going for a life-time; but he spun it out too fast.
Nothing left. The tragedy of it is that he's quite happy.
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