"So they are, the main ones. But he's backing some of the local clothing
manufacturers, the sweat-shop lot. They've been having strikes. That
interferes with profits. Uncle wants the good old days of the
night-stick and the hurry-up wagon back. He's even willing to spend a
little money on the good cause."
Io, seated on Banneker's left, turned to him. "Is that true, Ban?"
"I've heard rumors to that effect," he replied evasively.
"Won't it put The Patriot in a queer position, to be making common cause
with an enemy of labor?"
"It isn't a question of Horace Vanney, at all," he declared. "He's just
an incident."
"When are you going to write your Laird editorial?"
"All written. I've got a proof in my pocket."
She made as if to hold out her hand; but withdrew it. "After dinner,"
she said. "The little enclosed porch off the conservatory."
Amused and confirmatory glances followed them as they withdrew together.
But there was no ill-natured commentary. So habituated was their own
special set to the status between them that it was accepted with
tolerance, even with the good-humored approval with which human nature
regards a logical inter-attraction.
"Are you sure that you want to plunge into politics, Io?" Banneker
asked, looking down at her as she seated herself in the cushioned
_chaise longue_.
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