a lift, being doubtful upon the point of honor as to whether he would be
expected to pay a _pro rata_ of the taxi charge. They, the assembled
breakfast company, had his permission to call him, Mr. Wickert, a goat
if Mr. Banneker wasn't the swellest-looking guy he had anywhere seen on
that memorable evening.

Nobody called Mr. Wickert a goat. But Mr. Hainer sniffed and said:

"And him a twenty-five-dollar-a-week reporter!"

"Perhaps he has private means," suggested little Miss Westlake, who had
her own reasons for suspecting this: reasons bolstered by many and
frequent manuscripts, turned over to her for typing, recast, returned
for retyping, and again, in many instances, re-recast and re-retyped,
the result of the sweating process being advantageous to their literary
quality. Simultaneous advantage had accrued to the typist, also, in a
practical way. Though the total of her bills was modest, it constituted
an important extra; and Miss Westlake no longer sought to find solace
for her woes through the prescription of the ambulant school of
philosophic thought, and to solve her dental difficulties by walking the
floor of nights. Philosophy never yet cured a toothache. Happily the
sufferer was now able to pay a dentist. Hence Banneker could work,
untroubled of her painful footsteps in the adjoining room, and
considered the outcome cheap at the price. He deemed himself an exponent
of enlightened selfishness. Perhaps he was. But the dim and worn
spinster would have given half a dozen of her best and painless teeth to
be of service to him. Now she came to his defense with a pretty dignity:

"I am sure that Mr. Banneker would not be out of place in any company."