"Sly
old wolf! Wants to be senator one of these days. Or maybe governor. A
'receptive' candidate! Wah! Pulls every wire he can lay hand on, and
then waits for the honor to be forced upon him.... Good Lord! It's eight
o'clock. I'm late."
Dropping a bill on the table he hurried out. Half-minded to stop him,
Banneker took a second thought. Why should he? His statement had been
definite. Anyway, he could be called up on the morrow. Dining hastily
and in deep, period-building thought, Banneker returned to the office,
locked himself in, and with his own hand drafted the editorial built on
that phrase of petty and terrific import: "Junior Masters called me
'Bob' to-day."
After it was written he would not for the world have called up Fitch to
verify the central fact. He couldn't risk it. He scheduled the broadside
for the second morning following.... But there was Io! He had promised.
Well, he was to meet her at a dinner party at the Forbes's. She could
see it then, if she hadn't forgotten.... No; that, too, was a subterfuge
hope. Io never forgot.
As if to assure the resumption of their debate, the talk of the Forbes
dinner table turned to the mayoralty fight. Shrewd judges of events and
tendencies were there; Thatcher Forbes, himself, not the least of them;
it was the express opinion that Laird stood a very good chance of
victory.
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