"But what's wrong with me?" persisted Banneker.

"Too much restraint. A rare fault. You haven't let yourself out." For a
space he drummed and mused. Suddenly a knuckle cracked loudly. Mr.
Gordon flinched and glared at it, startled as if it had offended him by
interrupting a train of thought. "Here!" said he brusquely. "There's a
Sewer-Cleaners' Association picnic to-morrow. They're going to put in
half their day inspecting the Stimson Tunnel under the North River.
Pretty idea; isn't it? Suppose I ask Mr. Greenough to send you out on
the story. And I'd like a look at it when you turn it in."

Banneker worked hard on his report of the picnic; hard and
self-consciously. Tommy Burt would, he knew, have made a "scream" of it,
for tired business men to chuckle over on their way downtown. Pursuant
to what he believed Mr. Gordon wanted, Banneker strove conscientiously
to be funny with these human moles, who, having twelve hours of freedom
for sunshine and air, elected to spend half of it in a hole bigger,
deeper, and more oppressive than any to which their noisome job called
them. The result was five painfully mangled sheets which presently went
to the floor, torn in strips. After that Banneker reported the picnic as
he saw, felt, and smelt it. It was a somber bit of writing, not without
its subtleties and shrewd perceptions; quite unsuitable to the columns
of The Ledger, in which it failed to appear. But Mr. Gordon read it
twice. He advised Banneker not to be discouraged.

Banneker was deeply discouraged. He wanted to resign.

Perhaps he would nave resigned, if old Mynderse Verschoyle had not died
at eight o'clock on the morning of the day when Banneker was the