"What's young Banneker after?" he demanded.
"You ought to know him as well as I. He's a sort of protege of yours,
isn't he?"
"At The Retreat, you mean? I put him in because he looked to be polo
stuff. Now the young squirt won't practice enough to be certain team
material."
"Found a bigger game."
"Umph! But what's in back of it?"
"It's the game for the game's sake with him, I suspect. I can only tell
you that, wherever I've had contact with him, he has been perfectly
straightforward."
"Maybe. But what about this anarchistic stuff of his?"
"Oh, anarchistic! You mean his attacks on Wall Street? The Stock
Exchange isn't synonymous with the Constitution of the United States,
you know, Masters. Do moderate your language."
"Now you're laughing at me, damn you, Enderby."
"It's good for you. You ought to laugh at yourself more. Ask Banneker
what he's at. Very probably he'll laugh at you inside. But he'll answer
you."
"That reminds me. He had an editorial last week that stuck to me.
'It is the bitter laughter of the people that shakes thrones. Have
a care, you money kings, not to become too ridiculous!' Isn't that
socialist-anarchist stuff?"
"It's very young stuff. But it's got a quality, hasn't it?"
"Oh, hell, yes; quality!" rumbled the profane old man.
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