"It's funny," ruminated Banneker. "Mr. Wheelwright writes about the kind
of things that might happen any day, and probably do happen, and yet you
don't believe a word of it. 'March Hares'--well, it just couldn't
happen; but what do you care while you're in it! It seems realer than
any of the dull things outside it. That's the literary part of it, I
suppose, isn't it?"

"That's the magic of it," returned Io, with a little, half-suppressed
crow of delight. "Are you magic, too, Mr. Banneker?"

"Me? I'm hungry," said he.

"Forgive the cook!" she cried. "But just one thing more. Will you lend
me the poetry book?"

"It's all marked up," he objected, flushing.

"Are you afraid that I'll surprise your inmost secrets?" she taunted.
"They'd be safe. I can be close-mouthed, even though I've been
chattering like a sparrow."

"Take it, of course," he said. "I suppose I've marked all the wrong
things."

"So far," she laughed, "you're batting one hundred per cent as a
literary critic." She poured coffee into a tin cup and handed it to him.
"What do you think of my coffee?"

He tasted it consideringly; then gave a serious verdict. "Pretty bad."