Russell Edmonds, somber and
thoughtful, kept his seat. His leonine head drooped over his broad
shirt-bosom.
Said Mallory of The Ledger, bending over him:
"Look at Ban, Pop!"
"I'm looking," gloomed Edmonds.
"What's behind that smile? Something frozen. What's the matter with
him?" queried the observant Mallory.
"Too much success."
"It'll be too much dinner if he doesn't look out," remarked the other.
"He's trying to match cocktails with every one that comes up."
"Won't make a bit of difference," muttered the veteran. "He's all steel.
Cold steel. Can't touch him."
Marrineal led the way out of the ante-room to the banquet, escorting
Banneker. Never had the editor of The Patriot seemed to be more
completely master of himself. The drink had brightened his eyes, brought
a warm flush to the sun-bronze of his cheek, lent swiftness to his
tongue. He was talking brilliantly, matching epigrams with the Great
Gaines, shrewdly poking good-natured fun at the stolid and stupid mayor,
holding his and the near-by tables in spell with reminiscences in which
so many of them shared. Some wondered how he would have anything left
for his speech.
While the game course was being served, Ely Ives was summoned outside.
Banneker, whose faculties had taken on a preternatural acuteness, saw,
when he returned, that his face had whitened and sharpened; watched him
write a note which he folded and pinned before sending it to Marrineal.
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